THE   SKETCH  BOOE 


BY  WASHINGTON  IRVING 


SKETCH-BOOK 


GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 


*•  I  have  no  wife  nor  children,  good  or  bad,  to  proTide  for.  A 
to*ro  spectator  of  other  men's  fortunes  and  adventures,  and  how 
they  play  their  parts;  which,  mcthinks,  are  diversely  presented 
wsto  me,  as  from  a  common  theatre  or  scene." — Bturton. 


THE  AUTIIOR'8   REVISED  EDITION. 


COMPLETE  IN  ONE  VOLUMB 


NEW  YORK 
G.    P.    PUTNAM'S    SONS 

27  AND  29  WEST  230  STREET 
1888 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  la  the  year  1864,  bj 

GEOKGE  P.  PUTNAM, 

hi  ili«  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of 
New  York. 


At 


CONTENTS. 


nci 

['HE  AUTHOR'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF ,    15  - 

THE  VOYAGE 19 

ROSCOE 23 

THE  WIFE  /  .     ...... , &t_ 

RIP  VAN  \YISKUE.  .-m 49 

ENGLISH  WRITERS  ox  AMERICA 75 

RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND  . . . '. 88 

^  THE  BROKEN  HEART  v^ 98 

THE-  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING lOG* 

A  ROYAL  POET 113 

THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH 135 

THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON 143 

A  SUNDAY  IN  LONDON 153 

— THE  BOAR'S  HEAD  TAVERN,  EASTCHEAP 156 

Tin-:  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE 172 

RURAL  FUNERALS 187 

THE  INN  KITCHEN 203 

THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM  .  J^TT 206 

WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  .  \^7 229 

CHRISTMAS 245  '• 

THE  STAGE-COACH 253 

CHRISTMAS  EVE , 2G2 

CHRISTMAS  DAY ,278 

THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER 297 

LONDON  ANTIQUES 318 

LITTLE  BRITAIN 324 

BTRATFORD-ON-AVCN 345 ' 

TRAITS  <>«•  INDIAN  CHARACTER.  .  ..  371 


CONTENTS. 


PHILIP  OF  POKAXOKET  .....................  ,  .  ...     387 

JOHN  BULL  ........................................  411  v 

PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE  ......................    427 

THE  ANGLER  ...................  ,  ..................  440 

LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HoLLOW.Vf.  .............    453 

L'ENVOY  ..............................       ........  .  499 

AJPPKJUHX  .....  ,  ,,  503 


PREFACE  TO  THE  REVISED  EDITION. 


HE  following  papers,  with  two  exceptions; 
were  written  in  England,  and  formed  but 
part  of  an  intended  series,  for  which  I  bad 
made  notes  and  memorandums.  Before  I  could  ma 
ture  a  plan,  however,  circumstances  compelled  me  to 
send  them  piecemeal  to  the  United  States,  where 
they  were  published  from  time  to  time  in  portions  or 
numbers.  It  was  not  my  intention  to  publish  them 
in  England,  being  conscious  that  much  of  their  con 
tents  would  be  interesting  only  to  American  readers, 
and,  in  truth,  being  deterred  by  the  severity  with 
which  American  productions  had  been  treated  by  the 
British  press. 

By  the  time  the  contents  of  the  first  volume  had 
appeared  in  this  occasional  manner,  they  began  to  find 
their  way  across  the  Atlantic,  and  to  be  inserted,  with 
many  kind  encomiums,  in  the  "  London  Literary  Ga 
zette."  It  was  said,  also,  that  a  London  bookseller 
intended  to  publish  them  in  a  collective  form.  I  de 
termined,  therefore,  to  bring  them  forward  myself, 
that  they  might  at  least  have  the  benefit  of  my  su 
perintendence  and  revision.  I  accordingly  took  the 
printed  numbers  which  I  had  received  from  the  United 
States,  to  Mr.  John  Murray,  the  eminent  publisher, 
from  whom  I  had  already  received  friendly  attentions, 
End  left  them  with  him  for  examination,  informing 

7 


him,  that,  should  he  be  inclined  to  bring  them  befor« 
the  public,  I  had  materials  enough  on  hand  for  a  sec 
ond  volume.  Several  days  having  elapsed  -without 
any  communication  from  Mr.  Murray,  I  addressed  a 
note  to  him,  in  which  I  construed  his  silence  into  a 
tacit  rejection  of  my  work,  and  begged  that  the  num 
bers  I  had  left  with  him  might  be  returned  to  ma 
The  following  was  his  reply :  — 

Mv  DEAR  SIR, — 

I  entreat  you  to  believe  that  I  feel  truly  obliged  by  your 
kind  intentio'ns  towards  me,  and  that  I  entertain  the  most  un 
feigned  respect  for  your  most  tasteful  talents.  JMy  house  is 
completely  lilled  with  workpeople  at  this  time,  and  I  have 
only  an  office  to  transact  business  in;  and  yesterday  I  was 
wholly  occupied,  or  I  should  have  done  myself  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  you. 

If  it  would  not  suit  me  to  engage  in  the  publication  of  vour 
present  work,  it  is  only  because  I  do  not  see  that  scope  iii  the 
nature  of  it  whicl^would  enable  me  to  make  those  satisfac 
tory  accounts  between  us,  without  which  I  really  feel  no  sat 
isfaction  in  engaging  —  but  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  promote 
their  circulation,  and  shall  be  most  ready  to  attend  to  any  fu 
ture  plan  of  yours. 

With  much  regard,  I  remain,  dear  sir, 

Your  faithful  servanv, 

JOHN  MURRAY. 

This  was  disheartening,  and  might  have  deterred 
me  from  any  further  prosecution  of  the  matter,  had 
the  question  of  republication  in  Great  Britain  rested 
entirely  with  me ;  but  I  apprehended  the  appearance 
of  a  spurious  edition.  I  now  thought  of  Mr.  Archi 
bald  Constable  as  publisher,  having  been  treated  by 
Jiutt  with  much  hospitality  during  a  visit  to  Edinburgh  ; 
bi7*  first  I  determined  to  submit  my  work  to  Sir  W al 
ter  (then  Mr.)  Scott,  being  encouraged  to  do  so  by 
the  cordial  reception  1  had  experienced  from  him  at 
Abbotsford  a  few  years  previously,  and  by  the  favor 
able  opinion  he  had  expressed  to  others  of  my  earlier 
writings.  I  accordingly  sent  him  the  printed  num 
bers  of  the  Skt  teh-Book  in  a  parcel  by  ccach,  an-]  at 


PREFACE.  9 

ihe  sama  time  wrote  to  him,  hinting  that,  since  I  had 
had  the  pleasure  of  partaking  of  his  hospitality,  a  re 
verse  had  taken  place  in  my  affairs  which  made  th« 
successful  exercise  of  my  pen  all-important  to  me; 
I  begged  him,  therefore,  to  look  over  the  literary 
articles  I  had  forwarded  to  him,  and,  if  he  thought 
they  would  bear  European  republication,  to  ascertain 
whether  Mr.  Constable  would  be  inclined  to  be  the 
publisher. 

The  parcel  containing  my  work  went  by  coach  to 
Scott's  address  in  Edinburgh  ;  the  letter  went  by  mail 
to  his  residence  in  the  country.  By  the  very  first 
post  I  received  a  reply,  before  he  had  seen  my  work. 

V I  was  down  at  Kelse,"  said  he,  "  when  your  letter 
reached  Abbotsford.  I  am  now  on  my  way  to  town, 
and  will  converse  with  Constable,  and  do  all  in  my 
power  to  forward  your  views  —  I  assure  you  nothing 
will  give  me  more  pleasure." 

The  hint,  however,  about  a  reverse  of  fortune  had 
struck  the  quick  apprehension  of  Scott,  and,  with  that 
practical  and  efficient  good-will  which  belonged  to  hia 
nature,  he  had  already  devised  a  way  of  aiding  me. 

A  weekly  periodical,  he  went  on  to  inform  me,  was 
about  to  be  set  up  in  Edinburgh,  supported  by  the 
most  respectable  talents,  and  amply  furnished  with  all 
the  necessary  information.  The  appointment  of  the 
editor,  for  which  ample  funds  were  provided,  would 
be  five  hundred  pounds  sterling  a  year,  with  the  rea 
sonable  prospect  of  further  advantages.  This  situa 
tion,  being  apparently  at  his  disposal,  he  frankly  of 
fered  to  me.  The  work,  however,  he  intimated,  was 
to  have  somewhat  of  a  political  bearing,  and  he  ex 
pressed  an  apprehension  that  the  tone  it  was  desired 
to  adopt  might  not  suit  me.  "  Yet  I  risk  the  ques 
tion,"  added  he,  "  because  I  know  no  man  so  well  qual 
ified  for  this  important  task,  and  perhaps  because  it 


'0  PREFACE. 

frill  necessarily  bring  you  to  Edinburgh  If  my  pro 
posal  does  not  suit,  you  need  only  keep  the  matter 
Becret,  and  there  is  no  harm  done.  '  And  for  my  love 
I  pray  you  wrong  me  not.'  If,  on  the  contrary,  you 
think  it  could  be  made  to  suit  you,  let  me  know  aa 
soon  as  possible,  addressing  Castle  Street,  Edinburgh." 

In  a  postscript,  written  from  Edinburgh,  he  adds, 
*:  I  am  just  come  here,  and  have  glanced  over  the 
Sketch-Book.  It  is  positively  beautii'ul,  and  increase! 
my  desire  to  crimp  you,  if  it  be  possible.  Some  dif 
ficulties  there  always  are  in  managing  such  a  matter, 
especially  at  the  putset ;  but  we  will  obviate  them  as 
much  as  we  possibly  can." 

The  following  is  from  an  imperfect  draught  of  my 
reply,  which  underwent  some  modifications  in  the 
iopy  sent :  — 

"  I  cannot  express  how  much  I  am  gratified  by  youi 
letter.  I  had  begun  to  feel  as  if  I  had  taken  an  un 
warrantable  liberty ;  but,  somehow  or  other,  there  is  a 
genial  sunshine  about  you  that  warms  every  creeping 
thing  into  heart  and  confidence.  Your  literary  propo 
sal  both  surprises  and  Hatters  me,  as  it  evinces  a  much 
higher  opinion  of  my  talents  than  I  have  myself." 

I  then  went  on  to  explain  that  I  found  myself 
peculiarly  unfitted  for  the  situation  offered  to  me,  not 
merely  by  my  political  opinions,  but  by  the  very  con 
stitution  and  habits  of  my  mind.  "My  whole  course 
of  life,"  I  observed,  "  has  been  desultory,  and  I  am 
unfitted  for  any  periodically  recurring  task,  or  any 
stipulated  labor  of  body  or  mind.  I  have  no  com* 
mand  of  my  talents,  such  as  they  are,  and  have  to 
watch  the  vary  ings  of  my  mind  as  I  would  those 
of  a  weathercock.  Practice  and  training  may  bring 
me  more  into  rule  ;  but  at  present  I  am  as  useleea 
for  regular  service  as  one  of  my  own  country  Indiani 
or  a  Don  Cossack. 


PREFACE.  H 

"  1  must,  therefore,  keep  on  pretty  much  as  I  have 
begun  ;  writing  when  I  can,  not  when  I  would.  I 
shall  occasionally  shift  ray  residence  and  write  whatr 
ever  is  suggested  by  objects  before  me,  or  whatever 
rises  in  my  imagination  ;  and  hope  to  write  better 
and  more  copiously  by  and  by. 

"  I  am  playing  the  egotist,  but  I  know  no  better 
way  of  answering  your  proposal  than  by  showing  what 
a  very  good-for-nothing  kind  of  being  I  am.  Should 
Mr.  Constable  feel  inclined  to  make  a  bargain  for  the 
wares  I  have  on  hand,  he  will  encourage  me  to  further 
enterprise ;  and  it  will  be  something  like  trading  with 
a  gypsy  for  the  fruits  of  his  prowlings,  who  may  at  one 
time  have  nothing  but  a  wooden  bowl  to  oiler,  and  at 
another  time  a  silver  tankard." 

In  reply,  Scott  expressed  regret,  but  not  surprise,  at 
my  declining  what  might  have  proved  a  troublesome 
duty.  He  then  recurred  to  the  original  subject  of 
our  correspondence ;  entered  into  a  detail  of  the  va 
rious  terms  upon  which  arrangements  were  made  be 
tween  authors  and  booksellers,  that  I  might  take  my 
choice;  expressing  the  most  encouraging  confidence 
of  the  success  of  my  work,  and  of  previous  works  which 
I  had  produced  in  America.  "  I  did  no  more,"  added 
he,  "  than  open  the  trenches  with  Constable  ;  but  I  am 
sure  if  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  write  to  him,  you 
will  find  him  disposed  to  treat  your  overtures  with 
every  degree  of  attention.  Or,  if  you  think  it  of  con- 
sequence  in  the  first  place  to  see  me,  I  shall  be  in  Lon 
don  in  the  course  of  a  month,  and  whatever  my  expe 
rience  can  command  is  most  heartily  at  your  command. 
But  I  can  add  little  to  what  I  have  said  above,  exj 
cept  my  earnest  recommendation  to  Constable  to  en 
ter  into  the  negotiation."  * 

*  I  cannot  avoid  subjoining  in  a  note  a  succeeding  para 
graph  of  Scott's  letter,  which,  though  it  does  not  relate  to 


12  PREFACE. 

Before  the  receipt  of  this  most  obliging  letter, 
ever,  I  had  determined  to  look  to  no  leading  booksellei 
for  a  launch,  but  to  throw  my  work  before  the  public 
at  my  own  risk,  and  let  it  sink  or  swim  according  to 
its  merits.  I  wrote  to  that  effect  to  Scott,  and  soon 
received  a  reply:  — 

"  I  observe  with  pleasure  that  you  are  going  to  como 
forth  in  Britain.  It  is  certainly  not  the  very  best  way 
to  publish  on  one's  own  account;  for  the  booksellers 
set  their  face  against  the  circulation  of  such  works  afl 
do  not  pay  an  amazing  toll  to  themselves.  But  they 
have  lost  the  art  of  altogether  damming  up  the  road 
in  such  cases  between  the  author  and  the  public,  which 
they  were  once  able  to  do  as  effectually  as  Diabolus  in 
John  Bunyan's  '  Holy  AVar '  closed  up  the  windows  oi 
my  Lord  Understanding's  mansion.  I  am  sure  of  one 
thing,  that  you  have  only  to  be  known  to  the  British 
public  to  be  admired  by  them,  and  I  would  not  say  so 
unless  I  really  was  of  that  opinion. 

"  If  you  ever  see  a  witty  but  rather  local  publication 
called  'Blackwood's  Edinburgh  Magazine,'  you  will 
find  some  notice  of  your  works  in  the  last  number  : 
the  author  is  a  friend  of  mine,  to  whom  I  have  int.ro- 

thc  main  subject  of  our  correspondence,  was  too  character 
istic  to  be  omitted.  Some  time  previously  I  had  sent  Misa 
Sophia  Scott  small  duodecimo  American  editions  of  hei 
father's  poems,  published  in  Kdinburgh  in  quarto  volumes; 
showing  the  "nigromancy  "  of  the  American  press,  by  which 
a  quart  of  wine  is  conjured  into  a  pint  bctlle.  Scott 
observes  :  u  In  my  hurry,  I  have  not  thanked  you  in 
.  Sophia's  name  for  the  kind  attention  which  furnished  her 
with  the  American  volumes.  I  am  not  quite  sure  I  can 
edd  my  own,  since  you  have  made  her  acquainted  with 
much  more  of  papa's"  folly  than  she  would  ever  otherwise 
have  learned  ;  for  I  bad  taken  special  care  they  should 
nover  see  any  of  those  things  during  their  earlier  years. 
I  think  I  told  you  that  Walter  is  sweeping  the  firmament 
with  a  feather  like  a  maypole,  and  indenting  the  pavement 
.riith  a  sword  like  a  scythe  —  in  other  words,  he  has  beconn 
hussar  in 'the  18th  dragoons." 


PREFACE.  13 

duccd  you  in  your  literary  capacity.  Hia  name  is 
Lockliart,  a  young  man  of  very  considerable  talent, 
and  who  will  soon  be  intimately  connected  with  my 
family.  My  faithful  friend  Knickerbocker  is  to  be 
next  examined  and  illustrated.  Constable  was  ex 
tremely  willing  to  enter  into  consideration  of  a  treaty 
foryDur  works,  but  I  foresee  will  be  still  nioro  so  when 

Your  name  is  up,  and  may  go 
From  Toledo  to  Madrid. 

And  that  will  soon  be  the  case.  I  trust  to 

be  in  London  about  the  middle  of  the  month,  and 
promise  myself  great  pleasure  in  once  again  shaking 
you  by  the  hand." 

The  first  volume  of  the  Sketch-Book  was  put  to 
press  in  London  as  I  had  resolved,  at  my  own  risk,  by 
a  bookseller  unknown  to  fame,  and  without  any  of  the 
usual  arts  by  which  a  work  is  trumpeted  into  notice. 
Still,  some  attention  had  been  called  to  it  by  the  ex 
tracts  which  had  previously  appeared  in  the  "  Literary 
Gazette,"  and  by  the  kind  word  spoken  by  the  editor 
of  that  periodical,  and  it  was  getting  into  fair  circula 
tion,  when  my  worthy  bookseller  failed  before  the  first 
month  was  over,  and  the  sale  was  interrupted. 

At  this  juncture  Scott  arrived  in  London.  I  called 
to  him  for  help,  as  I  was  sticking  in  the  mire,  and, 
more  propitious  than  Hercules,  he  put  his  own  shoul 
der  to  the  -wheel.  Through  his  favorable  representa 
tions,  Murray  was  quickly  induced  to  undertake  the 
ftiture  publication  of  the  work  which  he  had  previous 
ly  declined.  A  further  edition  of  the  first  volume  was 
itrack  oiF,  and  the  second  volume  was  put  to  press,  and 
from  that  time  Murray  became  my  publisher,  conduct 
ing  himself  in  all  his  dealings  witli  that  fair,  open,  and 
liberal  spirit  which  had  obtained  for  him  the  well-mer- 
ited  appellation  of  the  Prince  of  Booksellers. 


14 


PREFACE. 


Thus,  under  the  kind  and  cordial  auspices  of  Sil 
Walter  Scott,  I  began  my  literary  career  in  Europe 
and  I  feel  that  I  am  but  discharging,  in  a  trifling  de 
gree,  my  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  memory  of  that 
golden-hearted  man  in  acknowledging  my  obligations 
to  him.  —  But  who  of  his  literary  contemporaries  ever 
applied  to  him  for  aid  or  counsel  that  did  not  experi 
ence  the  most  prompt,  generous,  and  effectual  assist 
ance! 

W.  T 

8<7HHY8IDE    1848. 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


THE  AUTHOE'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF. 

"  I  ain  of  this  mind  with  Homer,  that  as  the  smile  that 
crept  out  of  her  shcl  was  turned  cftsoons  into  a  toad,  and 
thereby  was  forced  to  make  a  stoole  to  sit  on  ;  so  the  travel 
ler  that  straggleth  from  his  owne  country  is  in  a  short  time 
transformed  into  so  monstrous  a  shape  that  he  is  faine  to 
alter  his  mansion  with  his  manners,  and  to  livo  where  he 
can,  not  where  he  would." — LYLY'S  EUPHUES. 

WAS  always  fond  of  visiting  new  scenes, 
observing    strange    characters   and 

manners.  Even  when  a  mere  child  I 
began  my  travels,  and  made  many  tours  of  dis 
covery  into  foreign  parts  and  unknown  regions 
of  my  native  city,  to  the  frequent  alarm  of  my 
parents,  and  the  emolument  of  the  town-crier. 
As  I  grew  into  boyhood,  I  extended  the  range  of 
my  observations.  My  holiday  afternoons  were 
spent  in  rambles  about  the  surrounding  country. 
I  made  myself  familiar  with  all  its  places  famous 
in  history  or  fable.  I  knew  every  spot  where 
a  murder  or  robbery  had  been  committed,  or  a 
ghost  seen.  I  visited  the  neighboring  villages, 
and  added  greatly  to  my  stock  of  knowledge  by 
noting  their  habits  and  customs,  and  conversing 
with  their  sages  and  great  men.  I  even  jour 
ueyed  one  long  summer's  day  to  the  summit  of 

15 


16  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  most  distant  hill,  whence  I  stretched  my  eye 
over  many  a  mile  of  terra  incognita,  and  was  as 
tonished  to  find  how  vast  a  globe  I  inhabited. 

This  rambling  propensity  strengthened  with 
my  years.  Books  of  voyages  and  travels  became 
my  passion,  and  in  devouring  their  contents,  I 
aeglected  the  regular  exercises  of  the  school. 
How  wistfully  would  I  wander  about  the  pier 
heads  izi  fine  weather,  and  watch  the  parting 
ships,  bound  to  distant  climes ;  with  what  long 
ing  eyes  would  I  gaze  after  their  lessening  sails, 
and  waft  myself  in  imagination  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth ! 

Further  reading  and  thinking,  though  they 
brought  this  vague  inclination  into  more  reason 
able  bounds,  only  served  to  make  it  more  decided. 
I  visited  various  parts  of  my  own  country ;  and 
had  I  been  merely  a  lover  of  fine  scenery,  1 
should  have  felt  little  desire  to  seek  elsewhere 
its  gratification,  for  on  no  country  have  the 
charms  of  nature  been  more  prodigally  lavished. 
Her  mighty  lakes,  like  oceans  of  liquid  silver, 
her  mountains,  with  their  bright  aerial  tints ;  her 
valleys,  teeming  with  wild  fertility ;  her  tremea 
dous  cataracts,  thundering  in  their  solitudes ;  hei 
boundless  plains,  waving  with  spontaneous  verd 
lire;  her  broad  deep  rivers,  rolling  in  solemn 
silence  to  the  ocean ;  her  trackless  forests,  where 
vegetation  puts  forth  all  its  magnificence ;  her 
skies,  kindling  with  the  magic  of  summer  clouds 
and  glorious  sunshine;  —  no,  never  need  ai| 
American  look  beyond  his  own  country  for  the 
sublime  and  beautiful  of  natural  scenery. 


THE  AUTHOR'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF.   17 

But  Europe  held  forth  the  charms  of  storied 
and  poetical  association.  There  were  to  be  seen 
the  masterpiece  of  art,  the  refinements  of  highly 
cultivated  society,  the  quaint  peculiarities  of  an 
cient  and  local  custom.  My  native  country  was 
full  of  youthful  promise :  Europe  was  rich  in  the 
accumulated  treasures  of  age.  Her  very  ruins 
told  the  history  of  times  gone  by,  and  every 
mouldering  stone  was  a  chronicle.  I  longed  .to 
wander  over  the  scenes  of  renowned  achieve 
ment,  —  to  tread,  as  it  were,  in  the  footsteps  of 
antiquity,  —  to  loiter  about  the  ruined  castle,  — 
to  meditate  on  the  falling  tower,  —  to  escape,  in 
short,  from  the  commonplace  realities  of  the  pres 
ent,  and  lose  myself  among  the  shadowy  gran 
deurs  of  the  past. 

I  had,  beside  all  this,  an  earnest  desire  to  see 
the  great  men  of  the  earth.  We  have,  it  is  true, 
our  great  men  in  America :  not  a  city  but  has  an 
ample  share  of  them.  I  have  mingled  among 
them  in  my  time,  and  been  almost  withered  by 
the  shade  into  which  they  cast  me ;  for  there  is 
nothing  so  baleful  to  a  small  man  as  (he  shade 
of  a  great  one,  particularly  the  great  man  of  a 
city.  But  I  was  anxious  to  see  the  great  men 
of  Europe ;  for  I  had  read  in  the  works  of  va 
rious  philosophers,  that  all  animals  degenerated  in 
America,  and  man  among  the  number.  A  great 
man  of  Europe,  thought  I,  must  therefore  be  as 
superior  to  a  great  man  of  America  as  a  peak  ot* 
the  Alps  to  a  highland  of  the  Hudson ;  and  in 
this  idea  I  was  confirmed  by  observing  the  com 
parative  importance  and  swelling  magnitude  of 
many  English  travellers  among  us,  who,  I  was 


JS  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

assured,  were  very  little  people  in  their  own 
country.  I  will  visit  this  land  of  wonders, 
thought  I,  and  see  the  gigantic  race  from  which 
I  am  degenerated. 

It  has  been  either  my  good  or  evil  lot.  to  have 
my  roving  passion  gratified.  I  have  wandered 
through  different  countries,  and  witnessed  many 
of  the  shifting  scenes  of  life.  I  cannot  say  that 
I  have  studied  them  with  the  eye  of  a  philoso 
pher,  but  rather  with  the  sauntering  gaze  with 
which  humble  lovers  of  the  picturesque  stroll 
from  ihe  window  of  one  print-shop  to  another, 
caught  sometimes  by  the  delineations  of  beauty, 
sometimes  by  the  distortions  of  caricature,  and 
sometimes  by  the  loveliness  of  landscape.  As  it 
is  the  fashion  for  modern  tourists  to  travel  pencil 
in  hand,  and  bring  home  their  portfolios  lilled 
with  sketches,  I  am  disposed  to  get  up  a  few  for 
the  entertainment  of  my  friends.  AVhen,  how 
ever,  I  look  over  the  hints  and  memorandums  I 
have  taken  down  for  the  purpose,  my  heart  al 
most  fails  me  at  finding  how  my  idle  humor  has 
led  me  aside  from  the  great  objects  studied  by 
every  regular  traveller  who  would  make  a  book 
I  fear  I  shall  give  equal  disappointment  with  off 
unlucky  landscape-painter,  who  had  travelled  OF 
the  continent,  but,  following  the  bent  of  his  va 
grant  inclination,  had  sketched  in  nooks,  and  cor 
ners,  and  by-places.  His  sketch-book  was  accord 
ingly  crowded  with  cottages,  and  landscapes,  and 
obscure  ruins ;  but  he  had  neglected  to  paint  St. 
Peter's,  or  the  Coliseum ;  the  cascade  of  Terni 
or  the  bay  of  Naples  ;  and  had  not  a  single 
glacier  or  volcano  in  his  whole  collection. 


THE   VOYAGE. 


Ships,  ships,  I  will  descrie  you 

Amidst  the  main, 
J  will  come  and  try  you, 
"\Yhat  you  are  protecting, 
And  projecting, 

What  's  your  end  and  aim. 
Ote  goes  abroad  lor  merchandise  and  trading. 
Another  stays  to  keep  his  country  i'rom  invad.npf, 
A  third  is  coining  home  with  rich  and  wealthy  ladir/r 
Halloo !  my  fancie,  whither  wilt  thou  go?  —  OLO  JTCJ<:M. 

(~^f  Q  an  American  visiting  Europe,  the  long 
voyage  he  has  to  make  is  an  excellent 
preparative.  The  temporary  absence  of 
worldly  scenes  and  employments  produces  a  state 
of  mind  peculiarly  fitted  to  receive  new  and  vivid 
impressions.  The  vast  space  of  waters  that  sepa 
rates  the  hemispheres  is  like  a  blank  page  in  ex 
istence.  There  is  no  gradual  transition,  by  which, 
as  in  Europe,  the  features  and  population  ol  ono 
country  blend  almost  imperceptibly  with  those 
if  another.  From  the  moment  you  lose  sight 
oi  the  land  you  have  left,  all  is  vacancy  until 
you  step  on  the  opposite  shore,  and  are  Ijiurtched 
al  once  into  the  bustle  and  novelties  of  another 
world. 

In  travelling  by  land  there  is  a  cont::ii;ily  of 
scene  and  a  connected  succession  of  persons  am! 

30 


20  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

incidents,  that  carry  on  the  story  of  life,  and  les« 
sen  the  effect  of  absence  and  separation.  We 
drag,  it  is  true,  "  a  lengthening  chain "  at  each 
remove  of  our  pilgrimage  ;  but  the  chain  is  un 
broken  :  we  can  trace  it  back  link  by  link  ;  and 
we  feel  that  the  last  still  grapples  us  to  home. 
But  a  wide  sea-voyage  severs  us  at  once.  It 
makes  us  conscious  of  being  cast  loose  from  the 
Bocure  anchorage  of  settled  life,  and  sent  adrift 
upon  a  doubtful  world.  It  interposes  a  gulf,  not 
merely  imaginary,  but  real,  between  us  and  our 
homes,  —  a  gulf  subject  to  tempest,  and  fear,  and 
uncertainty,  rendering  distance  palpable,  and  re 
turn  precarious. 

Such,  at  least,  was  the  case  with  myself.  Aa 
I  saw  the  last  blue  line  of  my  native  land  fade 
away  like  a  cloud  in  the  horizon,  it  seemed  as  if  ' 
I  had  closed  one  volume  of  the  world  and  its 
concerns,  and  had  time  for  meditation,  before  I 
opened  another.  Tlmt  land,  too,  now  vanishing 
from  my  view,  which  contained  all  most  dear  to 
me  in  life  ;  what  vicissitudes  might  occur  in  it, 
\vhat  changes  might  take  place  in  me,  before  I 
should  visit  it  again  !  Who  can  tell,  when  ho 
sets  forth  to  wander,  whither  he  may  be  driven 
by  the  uncertain  currents  of  existence;  or  wl  en 
Le  may  return ;  or  whether  it  may  ever  be  his 
lot  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his  childhood  ? 

I  said  that  at  sea  all  is  vacancy  ;  I  should  cor 
rect  the  expression.  To  one  given  to  day-dream 
ing,  and  fond  of  losing  himself  in  reveries,  a  sea- 
voyage  is  full  of  subjects  for  meditation  ;  but 
then  they  are  the  wonders  of  the  deep,  and'  of 


THE   VOYAGE.  21 

the  air,  and  rather  tend  to  abstract  the  mind  from 
worldly  themes.  I  delighted  to  loll  over  the 
quarter-railing,  or  climb  to  the  main-top,  of  a 
calm  day,  and  muse  for  hours  together  on  the 
tranquil  bosom  of  a  summer's  sea ;  to  gaze  upon 
the  piles  of  golden  clouds  just  peering  above  the 
horizon,  fancy  them  some  fairy  realms,  and  people 
them  with  a  creation  of  my  own  ;  —  to  watch  the 
gentle  undulating  billows,  rolling  their  silver  vol 
umes,  as  if  to  die  away  on  those  happy  shores. 

There  was  a  delicious  sensation  of  mingled 
security  and  awe  with  which  I  looked  down,  from 
my  giddy  height,  on  the  monsters  of  the  deep  at 
their  uncouth  gambols:  ghouls  of  porpoises  tum 
bling  about  the  bow  of  the  ship ;  the  grampu3 
slowly  heaving  his  huge  form  above  the  surface  ; 
or  the  ravenous  shark,  darting,  like  a  spectre, 
through  the  blue  waters.  My  imagination  would 
conjure  up  all  that  I  had  heard  or  read  of  the 
watery  world  beneath  me ;  of  the  finny  herds 
that  roam  its  fathomless  valleys ;  of  the  shapeless 
monsters  that  lurk  among  the  very  foundations  of 
the  earth  ;  and  of  those  wild  phantasms  that  sweL 
the  tales  of  fishermen  and  sailors. 

Sometimes  a  distant  sail,  gliding  along  the  edge 
of  the  ocean,  would  be  another  theme  of  idle 
speculation.  How  interesting  this  fragment  of  a 
world,  hastening  to  rejoin  the  great  mass  of  ex> 
islcnce  !  What  a  glorious  monument  of  huuian 
invention ;  which  has  in  a  manner  triumphed 
over  wind  and  wave;  has  brought  the  ends  of 
the  world  into  communion ;  has  established  an 
interchange  of  blessings,  pouring  into  the  sterile 


22  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

regions  of  the  north  all  the  luxuries  of  the  scnth 
has  diffused  the  light  of  knowledge  and  the  char 
ities  of  cultivated  life ;  and  has  thus  bound  to 
gethcr  those  scattered  portions  of  the  human  race, 
between  which  nature  seemed  to  have  thrown  an 
insurmountable  barrier. 

We  one  day  descried  some  shapeless  object 
drifting  at  a  distance.  At  sea,  everything  that 
breaks  the  monotony  of  the  surrounding  expanse 
attracts  attention.  It  proved  to  be  the  mast  of  a 
ship  that  must  have  been  completely  wrecked ;  for 
there  were  the  remains  of  handkerchiefs,  by  which 
some  of  the  crew  had  fastened  themselves  to  this 
spar,  to  prevent  their  being  washed  off  by  the 
waves.  There  was  no  trace  by  which  the  name 
of  the  ship  could  be  ascertained.  The  wreck  had 
evidently  drifted  about  for  many  months ;  clusters 
of  shell-fish  had  fastened  about  it,  and  long  sea 
weeds  flaunted  at  its  sides.  But  where,  thought 
I,  is  the  crew?  Their  struggle  has  long  been 
over,  —  they  have  gone  down  amidst  the  roar  of 
the  tempest,  —  their  bones  lie  whitening  among 
the  caverns  of  the  deep.  Silence,  oblivion,  like 
the  waves,  have  closed  over  them,  and  no  one 
can  tell  the  stojy_pj|jheir_end._1  What  sighs  have 
been  wafted  after  that  ship !  what  prayers  offered 
up  at  the  deserted  fireside  of  home !  How  often 
has  the  mistress,  the  wife,  the  mother,  pored  over 
the  daily  news,  to  catch  some  casual  intelligence 
of  this  rover  of  the  deep  !  llo\v  has  expectation 
darkened  into  anxiety  —  anxiety  into  dread  — « 
and  dread  into  despair  !  Alas !  not  one  memento 
may  ever  return  for  love  to  cherish.  All  that 


THE   VOYAGE.  23 

•»ay  ever  be  known,  is,  that  she  sailed  from  her 
port,  "  and  was  never  heard  of  more ! " 

The  sight  of  this  wreck,  as  usual,  gave  rise  to 
many  dismal  anecdotes.  This  was  particularly 
the  case  in  the  evening,  when  the  weather,  which 
had  hitherto  been  fair,  began  to  look  wild  and 
threatening,  and  gave  indications  of  one  of  those 
sudden  storms  which  will  sometimes  break  in 
upon  the  serenity  of  a  summer  voyage.  As  we 
sat  round  the  dull  light  of  a  lamp  in  the  cabin, 
that  made  the  gloom  more  ghastly,  every  one  had 
his  tale  of  shipwreck  and  disaster.  I  was  partic 
ularly  struck  with  a  short  one  related  by  the 
captain. 

"  As  I  was  once  sailing,"  said  he,  "  in  a  fine 
stout  ship  across  the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  one 
of  those  heavy  fogs  which  prevail  in  those  parts 
rendered  it  impossible  for  us  to  see  far  ahead  even 
in  the  daytime  ;  but  at  night  the  weather  was  so 
thick  that  we  could  not  distinguish  any  object  at 
twice  the  length  of  the  ship.  I  kept  lights  at 
the  mast-head,  and  a  constant  watch  forward  to 
look  out  for  fishing-smacks,  which  are  accustomed 
to  lie  at  anchor  on  the  banks.  The  wind  was 
blowing  a  smacking  breeze,  and  we  were  going 
at  a  great  rate  through  the  water.  Suddenly  the 
watch  gave  the  alarm  of  '  a  sail  ahead  ! '  —  it 
was  scarcely  uttered  before  we  were  upon  her 
She  was  a  small  schooner,  at  anchor,  with  her 
broadside  towards  us.  The  crew  were  all  asleep, 
and  had  neglected  to  hoist  a  light.  We  struck 
her  just  amidships. '  The  force,  the  size,  and 
weight  of  our  vessel  bore  her  down  below  the 


24  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

wares ;  we  passed  over  her,  and  were  hurried  on 
our  course.  As  the  crashing  wreck  was  sinking 
beneath  us,  I  had  a  glimpse  of  two  or  three  half- 
naked  -wretches  rushing  from  her  cabin  ;  they  just 
started  from  their  beds  to  be  swallowed  shrieking 
by  the  waves.  I  heard  their  drowning  cry  min 
gling  with  the  wind.  The  blast  that  bore  it  to  our 
ears  swept  us  out  of  all  farther  hearing.  I  shall 
never  forget  that  cry  !  It  was  some  time  before 
we  could  put  the  ship  about,  she  was  under  such 
headway.  We  returned,  as  nearly  as  we  could 
guess,  to  the  place  where  the  smack  had  an 
chored.  "We  cruised  about  for  several  hours  iu 
the  dense  fog.  We  fired  signal-guns,  and  listened 
if  we  might  hear  the  halloo  of  any  survivors ; 
but  all  was  silent  —  we  never  saw  or  heard  any 
thing  of  them  more." 

I  confess  these  stories,  for  a  time,  put  an  end 
to  all  my  fine  fancies.  The  storm  increased  with 
the  night.  The  sea  was  lashed  into  tremendous* 
confusion.  There  was  a  fearful,  sullen  sound  of 
rushing  waves,  and  broken  surges.  Deep  called 
unto  deep.  At  times  the  black  volume  of  clouds 
overhead  seemed  rent  asunder  by  flashes  of  light 
ning  which  quivered  along  the  foaming  billows, 
and  made  the  succeeding  darkness  doubly  terrible* 
The  thunders  bellowed  over  the  wild  waste  of 
waters,  and  were  echoed  and  prolonged  by  the 
mountain-waves.  As  I  saw  the  ship  staggering 
and  plunging  among  these  roaring  caverns,  it 
seemed  miraculous  that  she  regained  her  balance, 
or  preserved  her  buoyancy.  Her  yards  would 
dip  into  the  water :  her  bow  was  almost  burieJ 


THE   VOYAGE.  2ft 

beneath  the  waves.  Sometimes  an  Impending 
Burge  appeared  ready  to  overwhelm  her,  and 
nothing  but  a  dexterous  movement  of  the  helm 
preserved  her  from  the  shock. 

When  I  retired  to  my  cabin,  the  awful  scene 
Btill  followed  me.  The  whistling  of  the  wind 
through  the  rigging  sounded  like  funereal  wail- 
ings.  The  creaking  of  the  masts,  the  straining 
and  groaning  of  bulk-heads,  as  the  ship  labored 
in  the  weltering  sea,  were  frightful.  As  I  heard 
the  waves  rushing  along  the  sides  of  the  ship, 
and  roaring  in  my  very  car,  it  seemed  as  if 
Death  were  raging  round  this  floating  prison, 
seeking  for  his  prey :  the  mere  starting  of  a  nail, 
the  yawning  of  a  seam,  might  give  him  entrance. 

A  fine  day,  however,  with  a  tranquil  sea  and 
favoring  breeze,  soon  put  all  these  dismal  reflec 
tions  to  flight.  It  is  impossible  to  resist  the  glad 
dening  influence  of  fine  weather  and  fair  wind  at 
sea.  When  the  ship  is  decked  out  in  all  her  can 
vas,  every  sail  swelled,  and  careering  gayly  over 
the  curling  waves,  how  lofty,  how  gallant  she  ap 
pears  —  how  she  seems  to  lord  it  over  the  deep  ! 

I  might  fill  a  volume  with  the  reveries  of  a 
sea-voyage,  for  with  me  it  is  almost  a  continual 
reverie,  —  but  it  is  time  to  get  to  shore. 

It  was  a  fine  sunny  morning  when  the  thrilling 
cry  of  "  land ! "  was  given  from  the  mast-head 
None  but  those  who  have  experienced  it  can  form 
an  idea  of  the  delicious  throng  of  sensations 
which  rush  into  an  American's  bosom,  when  he 
first  comes  in  sight  of  Europe.  There  is  a  vol 
ume  of  associations  with  the  very  name.  It  if 


'26  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


. 


tbe  laul  of  promise,  teeming  with  everything  of 
which  his  childhood  has  heard,  or  on  which  hia 
studious  years  have  pondered. 

From  that  time  until  the  moment  of  arrival,  ii 
was  all  feverish  excitement.  The  ships-of-war, 
that  prowled  like  guardian  giants  along  the  coast ; 
the  headlands  of  Ireland,  stretching  out  into  the 
channel ;  the  Welsh  mountains,  towering  into  the 
clouds  ;  all  were  objects  of  intense  interest.  As 
we  sailed  up  the  Mersey,  I  reconnoitred  the 
shores  with  a  telescope.  My  eye  dwelt  with  de 
light  on  neat  cottages,  with  their  trim  shrubberies 
and  green  grass  plots.  I  saw  the  mouldering 
ruin  of  an  abbey  overrun  with  ivy,  and  the  taper 
spire  of  a  village  church  rising  from  the  brow  of 
a  neighboring  hill ;  —  all  were  characteristic  of 
England. 

The  tide  and  wind  were  so  favorable  that  the 
ship  was  enabled  to  come  at  once  to  the  pier.  It 
was  thronged  with  people  :  some,  idle  lookers-on ; 
others,  eager  expectants  of  friends  or  relatives. 
I  could  distinguish  the  merchant  to  whom  the 
ship  was  consigned.  I  knew  him  by  his  calcu 
lating  brow  and  restless  air.  His  lumda  were 
thrust  into  his  pockets  ;  he  was  whistling  thought 
fully,  and  walking  to  and  fro,  a  small  space  hav 
ing  been  accorded  him  by  the  crowd,  in  defer 
ence  to  his  temporary  importance.  There  wero 
repeated  cheerings  and  salutations  interchanged 
between  the  shore  and  the  ship,  as  friends  hap 
pened  to  recognize  each  other.  I  particularly 
noticed  one  young  woman  of  humble  dress,  but 
interesting  demeanor  She  was  leaning  forward 


THE    VOYAGE.  27 

from  among  the  crowd ;  her  eye  hurried  over  th«; 
ship  as  it  nearcd  the  shore,  to  catch  somo  wished* 
for  countenance.  She  seemed  disappointed  an<i 
agitated  ;  when  I  heard  a  faint  voice  call  he! 
name.  It  was  'from  a  poor  sailor  who  had  been 
ill  all  the  voyage,  and  had  excited  the  sympathy 
of  every  one  on  board.  When  the  weather  was 
line,  his  messmates  had  spread  a  mattress  for  him 
on  deck  in  the  shade ;  but  of  late  his  illness  had 
so  increased,  that  he  had  taken  to  his  hammock, 
and  only  breathed  a  wish  that  he  might  see  liia 
wife  beibre  he  died.  lie  had  been  helped  en 
deck  as  we  came  up  the  river,  and  was  now  lean 
ing  against  the  shrouds,  with  a  countenance  so 
wasted,  so  pale,  so  ghastly,  that  it  was  no  wonder 
even  the  eye  of  affection  did  not  recognize  him. 
But  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  her  eye  darted  on 
his  features  :  it  read,  at  once,  a  whole  volume  of 
sorrow;  she  clasped  her  hands,  uttered  a  faint 
shriek,  and  stood  wringing  them  in  silent  agony. 
All  now  was  hurry  and  bustle.  The  meetings 
of  acquaintances  —  the  greeting  cf  friends  —  the 
consultations  of  men  of  business.  I  alone  waa 
solitary  and  idle.  I  had  no  friend  to  meet,  no 
cheering  to  receive.  I  stepped  upon  the  lani  o£ 
my  forefathers  —  but  felt  that  I  was  a  strangei  * 
in  the  land. 


ROSCOE. 


-•          In  the  service  of  mankind  to  be 

A  guardian  god  below;  still  to  employ 

The  mind's  brave  ardor  in  heroic  aims, 

Such  as  may  raise  us  o'er  the  grovelling  herd, 

And  make  us  shine  forever  —  that  is  life.  —  TIIJXSO& 

[NE  of  the  first  places  to  which  a  si  range* 
is  taken  in  Liverpool  is  the  Athenaeum. 
It  is  established  on  a  liberal  and  judi 
cious  plan  ;  it  contains  a,  good  library,  and  spa 
cious  reading-room,  and  is  the  great  literary  re 
sort  of  the  place.  Go  there  at  what  hour  you 
may,  you  arc  sure  to  find  it  filled  with  grave-look 
ing  personages,  deeply  absorbed  in  the  study  of 
newspapers. 

As  I  was  once  visiting  this  haunt  of  the  learned, 
my  attention  was  attracted  to  a  person  just  enter 
ing  the  room.  He  was  advanced  in  life,  tall,  and 
of  a  form  that  might  once  have  been  command* 
ing.  but  it  was  a  little  bowed  by  time  —  perhapa 
by  care.  He  had  a  noble  Roman  style  of  counte 
nance  ;  a  head  that  would  have  pleased  a  painter; 
and  though  some  slight  furrows  on  his  brow 
stowed  that  wasting  thought  had  been  busy  there, 
yet  his  eye  still  beamed  with  the  fire  of  a  poetic 
soul.  There  was  something  in  his  whole  appear 
28 


ROSCOE.  29 

ance  that  indicated  a  being  of  a  different  order 
from  the  bustling  race  around  him. 

I  inquired  his  name,  and  was  informed  that  it 
was  Ivoscoe.  I  drew  back  with  an  involuntary 
feeling  of  veneration.  This,  then,  was  an  author 
of  cebbrity;  this  was  one  of  those  men  whoso 
voices  have  gone  forth  to  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
with  whose  minds  I  have  communed  even  in  the 
solitudes  of.  America.  Accustomed,  as  we  are  in 
our  country,  to  know  European  writers  only  by 
their  works,  we  cannot  conceive,  of  them,  as  of 
other  men,  engrossed  by  trivial  or  sordid  pursuits, 
and  jostling  with  the  crowd  of  common  minds  in 
the  dusty  paths  of  life.  They  pass  before  our  im» 
aginations  like  superior  beings,  radiant  with  the 
emanations  of  their  genius,  and  surrounded  by  a 
halo  of  literary  glory. 

To  find,  therefore,  the  elegant  historian  of  the 
Medici  mingling  among  the  busy  sons  of  traffic, 
at  first  shocked  my  poetical  ideas ;  but  it  is  from 
the  very  circumstances  and  situation  in  which  ho 
has  been  placed,  that  Mr.  Roscoe  derives  his  high 
est  claims  to  admiration.  It  is  interesting  to  no 
tice  how  some  minds  seem  almost  to  create  them 
selves,  springing  up  under  every  disadvantage, 
and  working  their  solitary  but  irresistible  way 
through  a  thousand  obstacles.  Nature  seems  to 
delight  in  disappointing  the  assiduities  of  art, 
with  which  it  would  rear  legitimate  dulncss  to 
maturity,  and  to  glory  in  the  vigor  and  luxuri 
ance  of  her  chance  productions.  She  scatters  the 
seeds  of  genius  to  the  winds ;  and  though  somo 
may  perish  among  the  stony  places  cf  the  world^ 


30  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  some  be  choked  by  the  thorns  and  brambles 
of  early  adversity,  yet  others  will  now  and  then 
strike  root  even  in  the  clefts  of  the  rock,  struggle 
bravely  up  into  sunshine,  and  spread  over  their 
sterile  birthplace  all  the  beauties  of  vegetation. 

Such  has  been  the  case  with  Mr.  Koscoe, 
Born  in  a  place  apparently  ungenial  to  the  growth 
of  literary  talent ;  in  the  very  market  -  place  of 
trade ;  without  fortune,  family  connections,  or 
patronage  ;  self-prompted,  self-sustained,  and  al 
most  self-taught,  he  has  conquered  every  obstacle, 
achieved  his  way  to  eminence,  and,  having  become 
one  of  the  ornaments  of  the  nation,  has  turned 
the  whole  force  of  his  talents  and  influence  to 
advance  and  embellish  his  native  town. 

Indeed,  it  is  this  last  trait  in  his  character 
which  has  given  him  the  greatest  interest  in  my 
eyes,  and  induced  me  particularly  to  point  him 
out  to  my  countrymen.  Eminent  as  are  his  liter 
ary  merits,  he  is  but  one  among  the  many  distin 
guished  authors  of  this  intellectual  nation.  They, 
however,  in  general,  live  but  for  their  own  fame, 
or  their  own  pleasures.  Their  private  history 
presents  no  lesson  to  the  world,  or,  perhaps,  a 
humiliating  one  of  human  frailty  and  inconsist 
ency.  At  best,  they  are  prone  to  steal  away  from 
the  bustle  and  commonplace  of  busy  existence ; 
to  indulge  in  the  selfishness  of  lettered  case;  and 
to  revel  in  scenes  of  mental,  but  exclusive,  enjoy 
ment. 

Mr.  Roscoe,  on  the  contrary,  has  claimed  none 
of  the  accorded  privileges  of  talent.  He  has  shut 
himself  up  in  no  garden  of  thought,  nor  elysiua 


ROSCOE.  31 

of  fancy,  but  has  gone  forth  into  the  highways 
and  thoroughfares  of  life  ;  he  has  planted  bowers 
by  the  wayside,  for  the  refreshment  of  the  pilgrim 
and  the  sojourner,  and  has  opened  pure  fountains, 
where  the  laboring  man  may  turn  aside  from  the 
dust  and  heat  of  the  day,  and  drink  of  the  living 
streams  of  knowledge.  There  is  a  "  daily  beauty 
in  his  life,"  on  which  mankind  may  meditate  and 
grow  better.  It  exhibits  no  lofty  and  almost  use 
less,  because  inimitable,  example  of  excellence, 
but  presents  a  picture  of  active,  yet  simple  and 
imitable  virtues,  which  are  within  every  man's 
reach,  but  which,  unfortunately,  are  not  exercised 
by  many,  or  this  world  would  be  a  paradise. 

But  his  private  life  is  peculiarly  worthy  the 
attention  of  the  citizens  of  our  young  and  busy 
country,  where  literature  and  the  elegant  arts 
must  grow  up  side  by  side  with  the  coarser  plants 
of  daily  necessity,  and  must  depend  for  their  cul 
ture,  not  on  the  exclusive  devotion  of  time  and 
wealth,  nor  the  quickening  rays  of  titled  patron 
age,  but  on  hours  and  seasons  snatched  from  the 
pursuit  of  worldly  interests,  by  intelligent  and 
public-spirited  individuals. 

lie  has  shown  how  much  may  be  done  for  o 
place  in  hours  of  leisure  by  one  master-spirit,  and 
how  completely  it  can  give  its  own  impress  to 
surrounding  objects.  Like  his  own  Lorenzo  de1 
Medici,  on  whom  he  seems  to  have  fixed  his  eye 
as  on  a  pure  model  of  antiquity,  he  has  inter 
woven  the  history  of  his  life  with  the  history  of 
his  native  town,  and  has  made  the  foundations  of 
its  fame  the  monuments  of  his  virtues.  AVher- 


552  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ever  you  go  in  Liverpool,  you  perceive  traces  of 
his  footsteps  in  all  that  is  elegant  and  liberal 
He  found  the  tide  of  wealth  flowing  merely  in 
the  channels  of  traffic ;  he  has  diverted  from  it 
invigorating  rills  to  refresh  the  garden  of  litera 
ture.  By  his  own  example  and  constant  exer 
tions  he  has  effected  tlia;  union  of  commerce  and 
intellectual  pursuits  so  eloquently  recommended 
in  one  of  his  latest  writings,*  and  has  practically 
proved  ho\v  beautifully  they  may  be  brought  to 
harmonize,  and  to  benefit  each  other.  The  noble 
institutions  for  literary  and  scientilic  purposes, 
which  reflect  such  credit  on  Liverpool,  and  are 
giving  such  an  impulse  to  the  public  mind,  have 
mostly  been  originated,  and  have  all  been  effec 
tively  promoted,  by  Mr.  Roscoe ;  and  when  we 
consider  the  rapidly  increasing  opulence  and  mag 
nitude  of  that  town,  which  promises  to  vie  in 
commercial  importance  with  the  metropolis,  it  will 
be  perceived  that  in  awakening  an  ambition  of 
mental  improvement  among  its  inhabitants  ho 
has  effected  a  great  benefit  to  the  cause  of  Brit 
ish  literature. 

In  America  we  know  Mr.  Roscoe  only  as  thu 
author  ;  in  Liverpool  he  is  spoken  of  as  the  bank 
er  ;  and  I  was  told  of  his  having  been  unfortunate 
in  business.  I  could  not  pity  him,  as  I  heard 
ferae  rich  men  do.  I  considered  him  far  above 
the  reach  of  pity.  Those  who  live  only  for  the 
woild,  and  in  the  world,  may  be  cast  down  by 
the  frowns  of  adversity,  but  a  man  like  Roscoe 
IB  not  to  be  overcome  by  the  reverses  of  fortune. 
*  Address  on  the  oj:  siring  of  the  Liverpool  Institution. 


EOSCOE.  33 

They  do  but  drive  him  in  upon  the  resources  of 
his  own  mind,  to  the  superior  society  of  his  own 
thoughts,  which  the  best  of  men  are  apt  some 
times  to  neglect,  and  to  roam  abroad  in  search  of 
less  worthy  associates.  He  is  independent  of  the 
world  around  him.  He  lives  with  antiquity  and 
posterity  :  with  antiquity,  in  the  sweet  communion 
of  studious  retirement ;  and  with  posterity,  in  the 
generous  aspirings  after  future  renown.  The  sol 
itude  of  such  a  mind  is  its  state  of  highest  enjoy 
ment.  It  is  then  visited  by  those  elevated  med 
itations  which  are  the  proper  aliment  of  noble 
souls,  and  are,  like  manna,  sent  from  heaven,  in 
the  wilderness  of  this  world. 

While  my  feelings  were  yet  alive  on  the  subject, 
it  was  my  fortune  to  light  on  further  traces  of 
Mr.  Roscoe.  I  was  riding  out  with  a  gentleman, 
to  view  the  environs  of  Liverpool,  when  he  turned 
off,  through  a  gate,  into  some  ornamented  grounds. 
After  riding  a  short  distance,  we  came  to  a  spa 
cious  mansion  of  freestone,  built  in  the  Grecian 
style.  It  was  not  in  the  purest  taste,  yet  it  had 
an  air  of  elegance,  and  the  situation  was  delightful. 
A  line  lawn  sloped  away  from  it,  studded  with 
clumps  of  trees,  so  disposed  as  to  break  a  soft 
fertile  country  into  a  variety  of  landscapes.  The 
Mersey  was  seen  winding  a  broad  quiet  sheet  of 
water  through  an  expanse  of  green  meadow-land  j 
while  the  Welsh  mountains,  blended  with  clouds, 
dud  melting  into  distance,  bordered  the  horizon. 

This  was  Roscoe's  favorite  residence  during 
the  days  of  his  prosperity.  It  had  been  the  seat 
of  elegant  hospitality  and  literary  retirement 
3 


3-1  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

The  house  was  now  silent  and  deserted  I  saTO 
the  windows  of  the  study,  which  looked  out  upon 
the  soft  scenery  I  have  mentioned.  The  windows 
were  closed  —  the  library  was  gone.  Two  or 
three  ill-favored  beings  were  loitering  about  the 
place,  whom  my  fancy  pictured  into  retainers 
of  the  law.  It  was  like  visiting  some  classic 
fountain,  that  had  once  welled  its  pure  waters  in 
A  sacred  shade,  but  finding  it  dry  and  dusty,_with 
the  lizard  and  the  toad  brooding  over  the  shat 
tered  marbles. 

I  inquired  after  the  fate  of  Mr.  Iloscoe's  li 
brary,  which  had  consisted  of  scarce  and  foreign 
books,  from  many  of  which  he  had  drawn  the 
materials  for  his  Italian  histories.  It  had  passed 
under  the  hammer  of  the  auctioneer,  and  was 
dispersed  about  the  country.  The  good  people 
of  the  vicinity  thronged  like  wreckers  to  get  some 
part  of  the  noble  vessel  that  had  been  driven  on 
shore.  Did  such  a  scene  admit  of  ludicrous  asso 
ciations,  we  might  imagine  something  whimsical 
in  tins  strange  irruption  in  the  regions  of  learn 
ing.  Pigmies  rummaging  the  armory  of  a  giant, 
and  contending  for  the  possession  of  weapons 
which  they  could  not  wield.  We  might  picture 
to  ourselves  some  knot  of  speculators,  debating 
with  calculating  brow  over  the  quaint  binding 
and  illuminated  margin  of  an  obsolete  author ; 
of  the  air  of  intense  but  baffled  sagacity  witb 
which  some  successful  purchaser  attempted  to 
dive  into  the  black-letter  bargain  he  had  secured. 

It  is  a  beautiful  incident  in  the  story  of  Mr 
Roscoe's  misfortunes,  and  one  which  cannot  fiiil 


ROSCOE.  35 

to  interest  the  studious  mmcl,  that  the  parting 
vdlh  his  books  seems  to  have  touched  upon  his 
tendercst  feelings,  and  to  have  been  the  only  cir 
cumstance  that  could  provoke  the  notice  :>f  hia 
muse.  The  scholar  only  knows  how  dear  these 
silent  yet  eloquent  companions  of  pure  thou<>htc 
and  innocent  hours  become  in  the  seasons  of 
adversity.  When  all  that  is  worldly  turns  to 
dross  around  us,  these  only  retain  their  steady 
value.  When  friends  grow  cold,  arid  the  converse 
of  intimates  languishes  into  vapid  civility  and 
commonplace,  these  only  continue  the  unaltered 
countenance  of  happier  days,  and  cheer  us  with 
that  true  friendship  which  never  deceived  hope 
nor  deserted  sorrow 

I  do  not  wish  to  censure :  but,  surely,  if  the 
people  of  Liverpool  had  been  properly  sensible  of 
what  was  due  to  Mr.  Roscoe  and  themselves,  hia 
library  would  never  have  been  sold.  Good  worldly 
reasons  may,  doubtless,  be  given  for  the  circum 
stance,  which  it  would  be  dillicult  to  combat  with 
others  that  might  seem  merely  fanciful ;  but  it 
certainly  appears  to  me  such  an  opportunity  as 
seldom  occurs,  of  cheering  a  noble  mind  strug 
gling  under  misfortunes,  by  one  of  the  most  deli 
cate  but  most  expressive  tokens  of  public  sympa 
thy.  It  is  difficult,  however,  to  estimate  a  man  of 
genius  properly  who  is  daily  before  our  eyes.  lie 
becomes  mingled  and  confounded  with  other  men. 
His  great  qualities  lose  their  novelty ;  we  become 
too  familiar  with  the  common  materials  which 
form  the  basis  even  of  the  loftiest  character 
Some  of  Mr.  Roscoe's  townsmen  may  regard  him 
merely  as  a  man  of  business  :  others,  as  a  politi- 


36  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

cian  ;  all  find  him  engaged  like  themselves  in  DJ> 
dinary  occupations,  and  surpassed,  perhaps,  by 
themselves  on  some  points  of  worldly  wisdom.. 
E\cn  that  amiable  and  unostentatious  simplicity 
of  character,  which  gives  the  nameless  grace  to 
real  excellence,  may  cause  him  to  be  undervalued 
by  some  coarse  minds,  who  do  irot  know  that  true 
worth  is  always  void  of  glare  and  pretension. 
But  the  man  of  letters,  who  speaks  of  Liverpool, 
speaks  of  it  as  the  residence  of  Roscoe.  The 
intelligent  traveller  who  visits  it  inquires  where 
Roscoe  is  to  be  seen.  He  is  the  literary  land 
mark  of  the  place,  indicating  its  existence  to  the 
distant  scholar,  lie  is,  like  Pompey's  column  at 
Alexandria,  towering  alone  in  classic  dignity. 

The  following  sonnet,  addressed  by  Mr.  Roscoe 
to  his  books  on  parting  with  them,  is  alluded  to 
in  the  preceding  article.  If  anything  can  add 
effect  to  the  pure  feeling  and  elevated  thought 
here  displayed,  it  is  the  coin  ietion  that  the  whole 
«  no  effusion  of  fancy,  but  a  faithful  transcript 
Vom  the  writer's  heart. 

TO  MY  BOOKS. 

As  one  who,  destined  from  his  friends  to  part, 
Kejjrets  his  loss,  but  hopes  again  erewhile 
To  share  their  converse  and  enjoy  their  sinile 

And  tempers  as  he  may  allliction's  dart  ; 

Thus,  loved  associates,  chiefs  of  elder  art, 
'IVach'Ts  of  wisdom,  who  could  once  beguile 
My  tedious  hours,  and  lighten  rvery  toil, 

I  now  resign  you;  nor  with  fainting  heart  ; 

For  pass  a  few  short  years,  or  days,  or  hours, 
And  happier  Reasons  may  their  dawn  unfold, 

And  all  your  sacred  fellowship  restore  : 
When,  freed  from  earth,  unlimited  its  powers, 
Mind  shall  with  mind  direct  communion  hold, 
And  kindred  spirits  meet  tc  part  no  more 


THE   WIFE. 


The  treasures  of  the  deep  are  not  so  precroua 
As  are  the  conceal'd  comforts  of  a  man 
Locked  up  in  woman's  love.    I  scent  the  air 
Of  blessings,  when  I  come  hut  near  the  house. 
What  a  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth 
The  violet  bed 's  not  sweeter.  —  MIUOLETOX. 

HAVE  often  had  occasion  to  remark  rha 
fortitude  with  which  women  sustain  (he 
most  overwhelming  reverses  of  fortune. 
Those  disasters  which  break  down  the  spirit  of  a 
man,  and  prostrate  him  in  the  dust,  seem  to  call 
forth  all  the  energies  of  the  softer  sex,  and  give 
Buch  intrepidity  and  elevation  to  their  character 
that  at  times  it  approaches  to  sublimity.  Nothing 
can  be  more  touching  than  to  behold  <\  soft  and 

37 


38  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

tender  female,  -who  bad  been  all  weakness  and 
dependence,  and  alive  to  every  trivial  roughness, 
while  treading  the  prosperous  paths  of  life,  sud 
denly  rising  in  mental  force  to  be  tbe  comforter 
and  support  of  her  husband  under  misfortune, 
and  abiding  with  unshrinking  firmness  the  bitter 
est  blasts  of  adversity. 

i  As  the  vine,  which  has  long  twined  its  gracefu 
foliage  about  the  oak,  and  been  lifted  by  it  into 
sunshine,  will,  when  the  hardy  plant  is  rifted  by 
the  thunderbolt,  cling  round  it  with  its  caressing 
tendrils,  and  bind  up  its  shattered  boughs,  so  is 
it  beautifully  ordered  by  Providence,  that  woman, 
who  is  the  mere  dependent  and  ornament  of  man 
in  his  happier  hours,  should  be  his  stay  and  solace 
when  smitten  with  sudden  calamity  ;  winding  her 
self  into  ihe  rugged  recesses  of  his  nature,  ten 
derly  supporting  the  drooping  head,  and  binding 

-V  up  the  broken  heart. 

I  was  unce  congratulating  a  friend,  who  had 
around  him  a  blooming  family,  knit  together  in 
the  strongest  affection.  "  I  can  wisli  you  no 
better  lot,"  said  he,  with  enthusiasm,  "  than  to 
have  a  wife  and  children.  If  you  are  prosperous, 
there  they  are  to  share  your  prosperity ;  if  other 
wise,  there  they  are  to  comfort  you."  And,  in 
deed,  I  have  observed  that  a  married  man  falling 
into  misfortune  is  more  apt  to  retrieve  his  situa 
tion  in  the  world  than  a  single  one ;  partly  be- 
causo  ho  is  more  stimulated  to  exertion  by  the 
necessities  of  the  helpless  and  beloved  beings  who 
depend  upon  him  for  subsistence,  but  chiefly  be- 
cause  his  spirits  are  soothed  and  relieved  bj 


THE   WIFE.  39 

domestic  endearments,  and  liis  self-respect  kept 
nlive  by  finding,  that,  though  all  abroad  is  dark- 
ness  and  humiliation,  yet  there  is  still  a  little 
world  of  love  at  home,  of  which  he  is  the  mon 
arch.  Whereas  a  single  man  is  apt  to  run  tc 
waste  and  self-neglect,  —  to  fancy  himself  lonely 
and  alandoned,  and  his  heart  to  fall  to  ruin  like 
some  deserted  mansion,  for  want  of  an  inhab 
itant. 

These  observations  call  to  mind  a  little  domes 
tic  story,  of  which  I  was  once  a  witness.  My 
intimate  friend,  Leslie,  had  married  a  beautiful 
and  accomplished  girl,  who  had  been  brought  up 
in  the  midst  of  fashionable  life.  She  had,  it  is 
true,  no  fortune,  but  that  of  my  friend  was  ample 
and  he  delighted  in  the  anticipation  of  indulging 
her  in  every  elegant  pursuit,  and  administering 
to  those  delicate  tastes  and  fancies  that  spread  a 
kind  of  witchery  about  the  sex.  —  "  Her  life," 
said  he,  "  shall  be  like  a  fairy  tale." 

The  very  difference  in  their  characters  pro 
duced  an  harmonious  combination :  he  was  of  a 
romantic  and  somewhat  serious  cast ;  she  was  all 
life  and  gladness.  I  have  often  noticed  the  mute 
rapture  with  which  he  would  gaze  upon  her  in 
company,  of  which  her  sprightly  powers  made 
her  the  delight ;  and  how,  in  the  midst  of  ap 
plause,  her  eye  would  still  turn  to  him,  as  if  there 
alone  she  sought  favor  and  acceptance.  When 
leaning  on  his  arm,  her  slender  form  contrasted 
finely  with  his  tall,  manly  person.  The  fond,  con 
Qding  aii*  with  which  she  looked  up  to  him  seamed 


40  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

to  call  forth  a  flush  of  triumphant  prido  and 
cherishing  tenderness,  as  if  he  doted  on  his  lovcty 
burden  for  its  very  helplessness.  Never  did  a 
couple  set  forward  on  the  flowery  path  of  early 
and  well-suited  marriage  with  a  fairer  prospect 
of  felicity. 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  my  friend,  however, 
to  have  embarked  his  property  in  large  specula 
tions  ;  and  he  had  not  been  married  many  months, 
when,  oy  a  succession  of  sudden  disasters,  it  was 
swept  from  him,  and  he  found  himself  reduced 
almost  to  penury.  For  a  time  he  kept  his  situa 
tion  to  himself,  and  went  about  with  a  haggard 
countenance  and  a  breaking  heart.  His  life  was 
but  a  protracted  agony;  and  what  rendered  it 
more  insupportable  was  the  necessity  of  keeping 
up  a  smile  in  the  presence  of  his  wife ;  for  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  overwhelm  hei  with 
the  news.  She  saw,  however,  with  the  quick  eyes 
of  affection,  that  all  was  not  well  with  him.  She 
marked  his  altered  looks  and  stifled  sighs,  and 
was  riot  to  be  deceived  by  his  sickly  and  vapid 
attempts  at  cheerfulness.  She  tasked  all  her 
Bprightly  powers  and  tender  blandishments  to  win 
him  back  to  happiness  ;  but  she  only  drove  tho 
arrow  deeper  into  his  soul.  The  more  he  saw 
cause  to  love  her,  the  more  torturing  was  the 
thought  that  he  was  soon  to  make  her  wretched. 
A.  little  while,  thought  he,  and  the  smile  will  van 
ish  from  that  cheek  —  the  song  will  die  awa^ 
from  those  lips  —  the  lustre  of  those  eyes  will  be 
quenched  with  sorrow ;  and  the  happy  heart, 


THE   WIFE.  41 

irliich  now  beats  lightly  in  that  bosom,  will  bo 
weighed  down,  like  mine,  by  the  cares  and  mis 
eries  of  the  world. 

At  length  he  came  to  me  one  day,  and  relate*! 
his  whole  situation  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  de 
spair.  When  I  heard  him  through  I  inquired 
"  Does  your  wife  know  all  this?" — At  the  ques 
tion  he  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears.  "  For  God's 
sake ! "  cried  he,  "  if  you  have  any  pity  on  me, 
don't  mention  my  wife  ;  it  is  the  thought  of  her 
that  drives  me  almost  to  madness  !  " 

"And  why  not  ?  "  said  I.  "  She  must  know  it 
ftooner  or  later :  you  cannot  keep  it  long  from  her, 
and  the  intelligence  may  break  upon  her  in  a 
more  startling  manner  than  if  imparted  by  your 
self ;  for  the  accents  of  those  we  love  soften  the 
harshest  tidings.  Resides,  you  are  depriving 
yourself  of  the  comforts  of  her.  sympathy ;  and 
not  merely  that,  but  also  endangering  the  only 
bond  that  can  keep  hearts  together,  —  an  unre 
served  community  of  thought  and  feeling.  She 
will  soon  perceive  that  something  is  secretly  prey 
ing  upon  your  mind  ;  and  true  love  will  not  brook 
reserve ;  it  feels  undervalued  and  outraged  when 
even  the  sorrows  of  those  it  loves  are  concealed 
from  it." 

"  Oh,  but,  my  friend  !  to  think  what  a  blow  I 
*m  to  give  to  all  her  future  prospects,  —  how  J 
am  to  strike  her  very  soul  to  the  earth  by  telling 
her  that  hei  husband  is  a  beggar  !  that  she  is  to 
forego  all  the  elegances  of  life  —  all  the  pleasures 
of  society  —  to  shrink  with  me  into  indigence 
and  obscurity !  To  tell  her  that  I  have  dragged 


12  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

her  down  from  the  sphere  in  which  she  might 
have  continued  to  move  in  constant  brightness  — 

O 

the  light  of  every  eye  —  the  admiration  of  every 
heart !  How  can  she  bear  poverty  ?  she  has  been 
brought  up  in  all  the  refinements  of  opulence 
How  can  she  bear  neglect?  she  has  been  the 
idol  of  society.  Oh  !  it  will  break  her  heart  —  it 
will  break  her  heart!  " 

I  saw  his  grief  was  eloquent,  and  I  let  it  have 
its  /low ;  for  sorrow  relieves  itself  by  words. 
When  his  paroxysm  had  subsided,  and  he  had 
relapsed  into  moody  silence,  I  resumed  the  subject 
gently,  and  urged  him  to  break  his  situation  at 
once  to  his  wife.  He  shook  his  head  mournfully, 
but  positively. 

"  But  how  are  you  to  keep  it  from  her  ?  It  is 
necessary  she  should  know  it,  that  you  may  take 
the  steps  proper  to  the  alteration  of  your  cir 
cumstances.  You  must  change  your  style  of  liv 
ing  —  nay,"  observing  a  pang  to  pass  across  his 
countenance,  "don't  let  that  afflict  you.  I  am 
sure  you  have  never  placed  your  happiness  in 
outward  show,  —  you  have  yet  friends,  warm 
friends,  who  will  not  think  the  worse  of  you  for 
being  less  splendidly  lodged :  and  surely  it  does 
not  require  a  palace  to  be  happy  with  Mary  "  — 

"  I  could  be  happy  with  her,"  cried  he,  convul 
sively,  "  in  a  hovel  !  I  could  go  down  with  her 
into  poverty  and  the  dust !  I  could  —  I  could  — 
God  bless  her  !  — God  bless  her !  "  cried  he,  burst 
ing  into  a  transport  of  grief  and  tenderness. 

"And  believe  me,  my  friend,"  said  I,  stepping 
up,  and  grasping  hirn  warmly  by  the  hand,  '  be 


THE   WIFE.  43 

lieve  me,  she  can  be  the  same  with  you.  Ay, 
more :  it  will  be  a  source  of  pride  and  triumph 
to  her,  —  it  will  call  forth  all  the  latent  energies 
and  fervent  sympathies  of  her  nature  ;  for  sho 
will  rejoice  to  prove  that  she  loves  you  for  your 
self.  There  is  m  every  true  woman's  heart  a 
spark  of  heavenly  fire,  which  lies  dormant  in  tht 
broad  daylight  of  prosperity,  but  which  kindles 
up,  and  beams,  and  blazes  in  the  dark  hour  of  ad 
versity.  No  man  knows  what  the  wife  of  Ins 
bosom  is  —  no  man  knows  what  a  ministering 
angel  she  is  —  until  he  has  gone  with  her  through 
the  fiery  trials  of  this  world." 

There  was  something  in  the  earnestness  of  my 
manner,  and  the  figurative  style  of  my  language, 
that  caught  the  excited  imagination  of  Leslie.  I 
knew  the  auditor  I  had  to  deal  with  ;  and  follow 
ing  up  the  impression  I  had  made,  I  finished  by 
persuading  him  to  go  home  and  unburden  his  sad 
heart  to  his  wife. 

I  must  confess,  notwithstanding  all  I  had  said, 
I  felt  some  little  solicitude  for  the  result.  Who 
can  calculate  on  the  fortitude  of  one  whose  life 
has  been  a  round  of  pleasures  ?  Her  gay  spirits 
might  revolt  at  the  dark,  downward  path  of  low 
humility  suddenly  pointed  out  before  her,  and 
might  cling  to  the  sunny  regions  in  which  they 
had  hitherto  revelled.  Besides,  ruin  in  fashion* 
able  life  is  accompanied  by  so  many  galling  mor« 
tificntions,  to  which  in  other  ranks  it  is  a  stranger 
In  short,  I  could  not  meet  Leslie  the  next  morn 
ing  without  trepidation.  He  had  made  the  dis 
closure. 


44  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

"  And  ho\v  did  she  bear  it?" 

"  Like  an  angel !  It  seemed  rather  to  be  a  re 
lief  to  her  mind,  for  she  threw  her  arms  round 
my  neck,  and  asked  if  this  Avas  all  that  had  lately 
made  me  unhappy.  —  But,  poor  girl,"  added  he, 
"  she  cannot  rcalixe  the  change  we  must  undergo. 
She  lias  no  idea  of  poverty  but  in  the  abstract ; 
she  has  only  read  of  it  in  poetry,  where  it  is  allied 
to  love.  She  feels  as  yet  no  privation  ;  she  suf 
fers  no  loss  of  accustomed  conveniences  nor  ele 
gances.  "When  we  come  practically  to  experi 
ence  its  sordid  cares,  its  paltry  wants,  its  petty 
humiliations  —  then  will  be  the  real  trial." 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  now  that  you  have  got  over 
the  severest  task,  that  of  breaking  it  to  her,  the 
sooner  you  let  the  world  into  the  secret  the  better. 
The  disclosure  may.be  mortifying ;  but  then  it  is 
a  single  misery,  and  soon  over :  whereas  you 
otherwise  suffer  it,  in  anticipation,  every  hour  in 
the  day.  It  is  not  poverty  so  much  as  pretence 
that  harasses  a  ruined  man  —  the  struggle  be 
tween  a  proud  mind  and  an  empty  purse  —  the 
keeping  up  a  hollow  show  that  must  soon  come 
to  an  end.  Have  the  courage  to  appear  poor,  and 
you  disarm  poverty  of  its  sharpest  sting."  On 
this  point  I  found  Leslie  perfectly  prepared.  He 
had  no  false  pride  himself,  and  as  to  his  wife,  she 
was  only  anxious  to  conform  to  their  altered  for 
tunes. 

Some  days  afterwards  he  called  upon  me  in  the 
evening.  He  had  disposed  of  his  dwelling-house, 
and  taken  a  small  cottage  in  the  country,  a  few 
miles  from  town.  He  had  been  busied  all  day 


THE   WIFE.  45 

in  sending  out  furniture.  The  new  establishment 
required  few  articles,  and  those  of  the  simplest 
kind.  All  the  splendid  furniture  of  his  hite  res 
idence  had  been  sold,  excepting  his  wife's  harp. 
That,  he  said,  was  too  closely  associated  with  the 
iilea  of  herself;  it  belonged  to  the  little  story  of 
their  loves ;  for  some  of  the  sweetest  moments  of 
their  courtship  were  those  when  he  had  leaned 
over  that  instrument,  and  likened  to  the  melting 
tones  of  her  voice.  I  could  not  but  smile  at 
this  instance  of  romantic  gallantry  in  a  doting 
husband. 

He  was  now  going  out  to  the  cottage,  where 
his  wife  had  been  all  day  superintending  its  ar 
rangement.  My  feelings  had  become  strongly 
interested  in  the  progress  of  this  family  story, 
and,  as  it  was  a  fine  evening,  I  offered  to  accom 
pany  him. 

He  was  wearied  with  the  fatigues  of  the  day, 
and,  as  he  walked  out,  fell  into  a  fit  of  gloomy 
musing. 

"  Poor  Mary !  "  at  length  broke,  with  a  heavy 
sigh,  from  his  lips. 

"  And  what  of  her  ?  "  asked  I :  "  has  anything 
happened  to  her  ?  " 

"  What,"  said  he,  darting  an  impatient  glance, 
"  is  it  nothing  to  be  reduced  to  this  paltry  situa 
tion  —  to  be  caged  in  a  miserable  cottage  —  to 
be  obliged  to  toil  almost  in  the  menial  concerna 
3f  her  wretched  habitation?" 

"  lias  she  then  repined,  at  the  change?" 

"  Repined  !  she  has  been  nothing  but  swectnesi 


46  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  good-humor.  Indeed,  she  seems  in  bottel 
spirits  than  I  have  ever  known  her ;  she  has  been 
to  me  all  love,  and  tenderness,  and  comfort !  " 

"  Admirable  girl !  "  exclaimed  I.  "  You  caL 
yourself  poor,  my  friend ;  you  never  were  so 
rich,  —  you  never  knew  the  boundless  treasures 
of  excellence  you  possess  in  that  woman." 

"  Oh !  but,  my  friend,  if  this  first  meeting  at 
the  cottage  were  over,  I  think  I  could  then  bo 
comfortable.  But  this  is  her  first  day  of  real  ex 
perience  ;  she  has  been  introduced  into  a  humble 
dwelling,  —  she  has  been  employed  all  day  in  ar 
ranging  its  miserable  equipments,  —  she  has,  for 
the  first  time,  known  the  fatigues  of  domestic 
employment, . —  she  has,  for  the  first  time,  looked 
round  her  on  a  home  destitute  of  everything 
elegant  —  almost  of  everything  convenient ;  and 
may  now  be  sitting  down,  exhausted  and  spiritless, 
brooding  over  a  prospect  of  future  poverty." 

There  Avas  a  degree  of  probability  in  this  pic 
ture  that  I  could  not  gainsay,  so  we  walked  on 
in.  silence. 

After  turning  from  the  main  road  up  a  narrow 
lane,  so  thickly  shaded  with  forest-trees  as  to 
give  it  a  complete  air  of  seclusion,  we  came  in 
sight  of  the  cottage.  It  was  humble  enough  in 
its  appearance  for  the  most  pastoral  poet ;  and 
yet  it  had  a  pleasing  rural  look.  A  wild  vine 
had  overrun  one  end  with  a  profusion  of  foliage  \ 
ft  few  trees  threw  their  branches  gracefully  over 
it ;  and  I  observed  several  pots  of  flowers  taste 
miiy  disposed  about  the  door,  aud  on  the  grass* 


THE   WIFE.  47 

plot  in  front.  A  small  wicket  gale  opened  upon 
a  footpath  that  wound  through  some  shrubbery  tc 
(he  door.  Just  as  we  approached,  we  heard  tlia 
sound  of  music  — •  Leslie  grasped  my  arm  ;  wo 
paused  and  listened.  It  was  Mary's  voice  sing 
ing,  in  a  style  of  the  most  touching  simplicity, 
s.  little  air  of  which  her  husband  was  peculiarly 
fond. 

I  felt  Leslie's  hand  tremble  on  my  arm.  lie 
stepped  forward  to  hear  more  distinctly.  Ilia 
step  made  a  noise  on  the  gravel-walk.  -A  bright, 
beautiful  face  glanced  out  at  the  window  and 
vanished  —  a  light  footstep  was  heard  —  and 
Mary  came  tripping  forth  to  meet  us  :  she  was 
in  a  pretty  rural  dress  of  white ;  a  few  wild 
flowers  were  twisted  in  her  fine  hair ;  a  fresh 
bloom  was  on  her  cheek  ;  her  whole  countenance 
beamed  with  smiles  —  I  had  never  seen  her  look 
so  lovely. 

"  My  dear  George,"  cried  she,  "  I  am  so  glad 
you  are  come  !  I  have  been  watching  and  watch 
ing  for  you ;  and  running  down  the  lane,  and 
looking  out-  for  you.  I  Ve  set  out  a  table  under 
a  beautiful  tree  behind  the  cottage  ;  and  I  Ve  been 
gathering"  some  of  the  most  delicious  strawberries, 
for  I  know  you  are  fond  of  them  —  and  we  have 
such  excellent  cream  —  and  everything  is  so 
iweet  and  still  here  —  oh!"  said  she,  putting 
her  arm  within  his,  and  looking,  up  brightly  in 
his  face,  "  oh,  we  shall  be  so  happy  ! " 

Poor  Leslie  was  overcome,  lie  caught  her  to 
his  bosom  —  he  folded  his  arms  round  her  —  ho 
kissed  her  again  and  again  —  he  could  not.  speak, 


48 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


but  the  tears  gushed  into  his  eyes ;  and  he  has 
often  assured  me,  that,  though  the  world  lias  since 
gone  prosperously  with  him,  and  his  life  has,  iu« 
deed,  been  a  happy  one,  yet  never  has  he  ea  po- 
rieuced  a  moment  of  moie  exquisite  felicity. 


KIP   VAN   WINKLE. 

A.  POSTHDMOUS  WHITING  OF  DIEDRTCU  KNICKERBOCKER 


By  Woden,  Ood  of  Saxons, 

From  whence  comes  Weusday,  that  is  Wodensday. 

Truth  is  a  thing  that  ever  I  will  keep 

Unto  thylko  day  in  which  I  creep  into 

My  sepulchre  — — —  CARTWTUGHT. 

[The  following  Tale  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the 
late  Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  an  old  gentleman  of  New 
York,  who  was  very  curious  in  the  Dutch  history  of  the 
province,  and  the  manners  of  the  descendants  from  its 
primitive  settlers.  His  historical  researches,  however,  did 
not  lie  so  much  among  books  as  among  men  ;  for  the  for 
mer  are  lamentably  scanty  on  his  favorite  topics  ;  whereas 
he  found  the  old  i-urghers,  and  still  more  their  wives,  rich 
in  that  legendary  ]»iv  so  invaluable  to  true  history.  When 
ever,  therefore,  he  happened  upon  a  genuine  Dutch  family, 
snugly  shut  up  in  its  low-roofed  farmhouse,  under  a  spread 
ing  sycamore,  he  looked  upon  it  as  a  little  clasped  volume  of 
black-letter,  and  studied  it  with  the  zeal  of  a  book-worm. 

The  result  of  all  these  researches  was  a  history  of  the  prov 
ince  during  the  reign  of  the  Dutch  governors,  which  he  pub 
lished  some  years  since.  There  have  been  various  opinions 
43  to  the  literary  character  of  his  work,  and,  to  tell  the  truth, 
it  is  not  a  whit  better  than  it  should  be.  Its  chief  merit  is  its 
scrupulous  accuracy,  which  indeed  was  a  little  questioned  on 
Ha  lirst  appearance,  but  has  since  been  completely  estab 
lished  ;  and  it  is  now  admitted  into  all  historical  collections 
is  a  book  of  unquestionable  authoritv. 

The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the  publication  of  his 
work;  and  now  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  it  cannot  do  much 
harm  to  his  memory  to  say  that  his  time  might  have  been 
much  better  employed  in  weightier  labors.  He,  however,  wai 
*pt  to  ride  his  hobby  his  own  way  ;  and  though  it  did  now 
and  then  kick  up  the  dust  a  little  In  th'j  eyes  of  his  neighbors, 
and  grieve  the  spirit  of  some  friends,  for  whom  he  felt  the  tru 
est  deference  and  affection,  yet  his  errors  and  follies  are  ro« 

4  49 


50  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Eiembered  "  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,"  and  it  begins  t  < 
be  suspected  tbat  he  never  intended  to  injure  or  otfend.  Br; 
however  his  memory  may  be  appreciated  by  critics,  it  is  still 
held  dear  by  man}'  folk  whose  good  opinion  is  well  worth 
having  ;  particularly  by  certain  biscuit-bakers,  who  have  gono 
BO  far  as  to  imprint  his  likeness  on  their  New-Year  cakes;  and 
have  thus  given  him  a  chance  for  immortality,  almost  equal 
to  the  being  stamped  on  a  Waterloo  Medal,  or  a  QUPCD 
Anne's  Farthing.] 

'IIOEVER  has  made  a  voyage  up  tno 
Hudson  must  remember  the  Kaatskil] 
mountains.  They  are  a  dismembered 
branch  of  the  great  Appalachian  family,  and  arc 
§een  away  to  the  west  of  the  river,  swelling  up 
to  a  noble  height,  and  lording  it  over  the  surround 
ing  country.  Every  change  of  season,  every 
change  of  weather,  indeed,  every  hour  of  the 
day,  produces  some  change  in  the  magical  hues 
and  shapes  of  these  mountains,  and  they  are  re 
garded  by  all  the  good  wives,  far  and  near,  as 
perfect  barometers.  When  the  weather  is  fair 
and  settled,  they  are  clothed  in  blue  and  purple, 
and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the  clear  evening 
sky;  but  sometimes,  when  the  rest  of  the  land 
scape  is  cloudless,  they  will  gather  a  hood  of 
gray  vapors  about  their  summits,  which,  in  tha 
last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  will  glow  and  light 
up  like  a  crown  of  glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the  voy 
ager  may  have  descried  the  light  smoke  curling 
up  from  a  village,  whose  shingle-roofs  gleam 
among  the  trees,  just  where  the  blue  tints  of  the 
upland  melt  away  into  the  fresh  green  of  the 
nearer  landscape.  It  is  a  little  village,  of  greai 
antiquity,  having  been  founded  by  some  of  Ibe 


HIP   VAN  WINKLE.  51 


Dutch  colonists  in  the  early  times  of  the 
ince,  just  about  the  beginning  of  the  govern 
ment  of  the  good  Peter  Stnyvesant,  (may  he  rest 
in  peace  !)  and  there  were  some  of  the  houses  of 
(he  original  settlers  standing  within  a  few  years, 
built  of  small  yellow  bricks  brought  from  Hol 
land,  having  latticed  windows  and  gable  fronts, 
surmounted  with  weathercocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very 
bouses  (which,  to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly 
time-worn  and  weather-beaten),  there  lived,  manj? 
years  since,  while  the  country  was  yet  a  province 
of  Great  Britain,  a  simple,  good-natured  fellow,  of 
the  name  of  Rip  Van  Winkle.  He  was  a  descend 
ant  of  the  Van  Winkles  who  figured  so  gallantly 
in  the  chivalrous  days  of  Peter  Stuyvcsant,  and 
accompanied  him  to  the  siege  of  Fort  Christina. 
He  inherited,  however,  but  little  of  the  martial 
character  of  his  ancestors.  I  have  observed  that 
he  was  a  simple,  good-natured  man  ;  he  was, 
moreover,  a  kind  neighbor,  and  an  obedient,  hen 
pecked  husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  circum 
stance  might  be  owing  that  meekness  of  spirit 
which  gained  him  such  universal  popularity  ;  for 
those  men  are  most  apt  to  be  obsequious  and  con 
ciliating  abroad,  who  are  under  the  discipline  of 
shrews  at  home.  Their  tempers,  doubtless,  are 
rendered  pliant  and  i/ialleable  in  the  fiery  furnace 
tff  domestic  tribulation  ;  and  a  curtain-lecture  is 
r/orth  all  the  sermons  in  the  world  for  teaching 
the  virtues  of  patience  and  long-suffering  A 
termagant  wife  may,  therefore,  in  some  respects, 
be  considered  a  tolerable  blessing;  and  if  so,  Rip 
Van  Winkle  was  thrice  blessed. 


53  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a  great  favorite 
among  all  the  good  wives  of  the  village,  who,  as 
usual  with  the  amiable  sex,  took  his  part  in  aJl 
family  squabbles ;  and  never  failed,  whenever 
they  talked  those  matters  over  in  their  evening 
gossipings,  to  lay  all  the  blame  on  Dame  Van 
Winkle.  The  children  of  the  village,  too,  would 
shout  with  joy  whenever  he  approached,  lie 
assisted  at  their  sports,  made  their  playthings, 
taught  them  to  fly  kites  and  shoot  marbles,  and 
told  them  long  stories  of  ghosts,  witches,  and  In 
dians.  Whenever  he  went  dodging  about  the 
village,  he  was  surrounded  by  a  troop  of  them, 
hanging  on  his  skirts,  clambering  on  his  back, 
and  playing  a  thousand  tricks  on  him  with  impu 
nity  ;  and  not  a  dog  would  bark  at  him  throughout 
the  neighborhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an 
insuperable  aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable 
labor.  It  could  not  be  from  the  want  of  assiduity 
or  perseverance ;  for  he  would  sit  on  a  wet  rock, 
with  a  rod  as  long  and  heavy  as  a  Tartar's  lance, 
and  fish  all  day  without  a  murmur,  even  though 
he  should  not  bo  encouraged  by  a  single  nibble. 
He  would  carry  a  fowlir.g-piece  on  his  shoulder 
for  hours  together,  trudging  through  woods  and 
swamps,  and  up  hill  and  do\vn  dale,  to  shoot  a 
few  squirrels  or  wild  pigeons.  He  would  never 
refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor  even  in  the  roughest 
toil,  and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  country  frolics 
for  husking  Indian  corn,  or  building  stone  fences ; 
tbe  women  of  the  village,  too,  used  to  employ 
him  to  rua  their  errands,  mid  to  do  such  little 


RIP   VAN    WINKLE.  53 

odd  jobs  as  their  less  obliging  husbands  would  not 
do  for  them.  In  a  word,  Rip  was  ready  to  at 
tend  to  anybody's  business  but  his  own ;  but  as  tc 
doing  family  duty,  and  keeping  his  farm  in  order, 
he  found  it  impossible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work 
on  his  farm ;  it  was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece 
of  ground  in  the  whole  country  ;  everything 
about  it  went  wrong,  and  would  go  wrong,  in 
spiie  of  him.  His  fences  were  continually  falling 
to  pieces  ;  his  cow  would  either  gr>  astray,  or  get 
among  the  cabbages  ;  weeds  were  sure  to  grow 
quicker  in  his  fields  than  anywhere  else  ;  the  rain 
always  made  a  point  of  setting  in  just  as  he  had 
some  out-door  work  to  do;  so  that  though  his  pat 
rimonial  estate  had  dwindled  away  under  his  man 
agement,  acre  by  acre,  until  there  was  little  more 
left  than  a  mere  patch  of  Indian  corn  and  pota 
toes,  yet  it  was  the  worst  conditioned  farm  in  the 
neighborhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  ah 
if  they  belonged  to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an 
urchin  begotten  in  his  own  likeness,  promised  to 
inherit  tlie  habits,  with  the  old  clothes,  of  his 
father.  He  was  generally  seen  trooping  like  a 
colt  at  his  mother's  heels,  equipped  in  a  pair  of 
his  father's  cast-off  galligaskins,  which  he  had 
much  ado  to  hold  up  with  one  hand,  as  a  line  huty 
does  her  train  in  bad  weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those 
happy  mortals,  of  fuolish,  well-oiled  dispositions, 
who  take  the  world  easy,  eat  white  bread  o* 
brown,  whichever  can  be  got  with  least  thought 


54  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

or  trouble,  and  would  rather  starve  on  a  penny 
than  work  for  a  pound.  If  left  to  himself,  ha 
would  have  whistled  life  away  in  perfect  content 
raent ;  but  his  wife  kept  continually  dinning  in 
his  ears  about  his  idleness,  his  carelessness,  and 
the  ruin  he  was  bringing  on  his  family.  Morning, 
noon,  and  night,  her  tongue  was  incessantly  going, 
and  everything  he  said  or  did  was  sure  to  produce 
a  torrent  of  household  eloquence.  Rip  had  but 
one  way  of  replying  to  all  lectures  of  the  kind, 
and  that,  by  frequent  use,  had  grown  into  a  habit. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook  his  head,  cast 
up  his  eyes,  but  said  nothing.  This,  however,  al 
ways  provoked  a  fresh  volley  from  his  wife  ;  so 
that  he  was  fain  to  draw  off  his  forces,  and  take 
to  the  outside  of  the  house  —  the  only  side  which, 
in  truth,  belongs  to  a  hen-pecked  husband. 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf, 
who  was  as  much  hen-pecked  as  his  master ;  for 
Dame  Van  Winkle  regarded  them  as  companions 
in  idleness,  and  even  looked  upon  Wolf  with  an 
evil  eye,  as  the  cause  of  his  master's  going  so 
often  astray.  True  it  is,  in  all  points  of  spirit 
befitting  an  honorable  dog,  he  was  as  courageous 
an  animal  as  ever  scoured  the  woods ;  but  what 
courage  can  withstand  the  ever-during  and  all- 
besetting  terrors  of  a  woman's  tongue  ?  The  mo 
ment  Wolf  entered  the  house  his  crest  fell,  hia 
tail  drooped  to  the  ground,  or  curled  between  hia 
legs,  he  sneaked  about  with  a  gallows  air,  casting 
many  a  sijlelong  glance  at  Dame  Van  Winkle, 
and  at  the  least  flourish  of  a  broomstick  or  ladle 
be  would  fly  to  the  door  with  yelping  precipita*' 
don. 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE.  55 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  Van 
Winkle  as  years  of  matrimony  rolled  on ;  a  tart 
temper  never  mellows  with  age,  and  a  sharp 
tongue  is  the  only  edged  tool  that  grows  keener 
with  constant  use.  For  a  long  while  he  used  to 
console  himself,  when  driven  from  home,  by  fre 
quenting  a  kind  of  perpetual  club  of  the  sages, 
philosophers,  and  other  idle  personages  of  the  vil 
lage,  which  held  its  sessions  on  a  bench  before  a 
email  inn.  designated  by  a  rubicund  portrait  of 
His  Majesty  George  the  Third.  Here  they  used 
to  sit  in  the  shade  through  a  long,  lazy  summer's 
day,  talking  listlessly  over  village  gossip,  or  tell 
ing  endless  sleepy  stories  about  nothing.  But 
it  would  have  been  worth  any  statesman's  money 
to  have  heard  the  profound  discussions  that  some 
times  took  place,  when  by  chance  an  old  news 
paper  fell  into  their  hands  from  some  passing 
traveller.  How  solemnly  they  would  listen  to 
the  contents,  as  drawled  out  by  Derrick  Van 
Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  a  dapper  learned  little 
man,  who  was  not  to  be  daunted  by  the  most 
gigantic  word  in  the  dictionary ;  and  how  sagely 
they  would  deliberate  upon  public  events  some 
months  after  they  had  taken  place. 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely 
controlled  by  Nicholas  Veddcr,  a  patriarch  of  the 
village,  and  landlord  of  the  inn,  at  the  door  of 
vhich  he  took  his  seat  from  morning  till  night, 
just  moving  sufficiently  to  avoid  the  sun  and  keep 
in  the  shade  of  a  large  tree ;  so  that  the  neigh 
bors  could  tell  the  hour  by  his  movements  as 
accurately  as  by  a  sui-dial.  It  fa  true  he  was 


56  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

rarely  heard  to  speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe  in 
cessantly.  His  adherents,  however  (for  ever) 
great  man  has  his  adherents),  perfectly  under* 
stood  him,  and  knew  how  to  gather  his  opinions* 
When  anything  that  was  read  or  related  dis 
pleased  him,  he  was  observed  to  smoke  his  pipe 
vehemently,  and  to  send  forth  short,  frequent,  and 
angry  puffs ;  but  when  pleased,  he  would  inhale 
the  smoke  slowly  and  tranquilly,  and  emit  it  in 
light  and  placid  clouds  ;  and  sometimes,  taking 
the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant 
vapor  curl  about  his  nose,  would  gravely  nod  his 
head  in  token  of  perfect  approbation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip 
was  at  length  routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who 
would  suddenly  break  in  upon  the  tranquillity 
of  the  assemblage  and  call  the  members  all  to 
naught ;  nor  was  that  august  personage,  Nicholas 
Vedder  himself,  sacred  from  the  daring  tongue  of 
this  terrible  virago,  who  charged  him  outright 
with  encouraging  her  husband  in  habits  of  idle- 


Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair ; 
and  his  only  alternative,  to  escape  from  the  labor 
of  the  farm  and  clamor  of  his  wife,  was  to  take 
gun  in  hand  and  stroll  away  into  the  woods. 
Here  he  would  sometimes  seat  himself  at  tho 
foot  of  a  tree,  and  share  the  contents  of  his  wallet 
with  Wolf,  with  whom  he  sympathized  as  a  fellow- 
sufferer  hi  persecution.  "  Poor  Wolf,"  ha  wouLI 
say,  "  thy  mistress  leads  thee  a  dog's  life  of  it 
but  never  mind,  my  lad,  whilst  I  live  thou  shall 
never  want  a  friend  to  stand  by  thee !  "  Wo?i 


RIP   VAN    WINKLE.  57 

would  wag  his  tail,  look  wistfully  in  his  mastert 
race ;  and  if  clogs  can  feel  pity,  I  verily  believe 
he  reciprocated  the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a  long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a  line  autum 
nal  clay,  Kip  had  unconsciously  scrambled  to  one 
of  the  highest  parts  of  the  Kaatskill  mountains, 
He  was  after  his  favorite  sport  of  squirrel-shoot 
ing,  and  the  still  solitudes  had  echoed  and  re- 
cohoed  with  the  reports  of  his  gun.  Panting 
and  fatigued,  he  threw  himself,  late  in  the  after 
noon,  on  a  green  knoll,  covered  with  mountain 
herbage,  that  crowned  the  brow  of  a  precipice. 
From  an  opening  between  the  trees  he  could 
overlook  all  the  lower  country  for  many  a  mile 
of  rich  woodland.  He  saw  at  a  distance  the 
lordly  Hudson,  far,  far  below  him,  moving  on  its 
silent  but  mnjestic  course,  with  the  reflection  of 
a  purple  cloud,  or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here 
and  there  sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and  at 
last  losing  itself  in  the  blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep 
mountain  glen,  wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the 
bottom  filled  with  fragments  from  the  impending 
cliffs,  and  scarcely  lighted  by  the  reflected  raya 
of  the  setting  sun.  For  some  time  Rip  lay  mus 
ing  on  this  scene  ;  evening  was  gradually  advan 
cing  ;  the  mountains  began  to  throw  their  long 
blue  shadows  over  the  valleys ;  he  saw  that  it 
would  be  dark  long  before  he  could  reach  the  vil 
lage,  and  he  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when  he  thought 
of  encountering  the  terrors  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 

AJ*  ho  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a  voice 
a  distance,  hallooing,  "  Rip  Van  Winkle 


68  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Rip  Van  Winkle ! "  He  looked  round,  but  could 
Bee  nothing  but  a  crow  winging  its  solitary  flight 
across  the  mountain.  He  thought  his  fancy  must 
have  deceived  him,  and  turned  again  to  descend, 
when  he  heard  the  same  cry  ring  through  the  still 
evening  air  :  "  Hip  Van  Winkle  !  Rip  Van  Win 
kle  I"  —  at  the  same  time  Wolf  bristled  up  his 
back,  and  giving  a  low  growl,  skulked  to  his  mas 
ter's  side,  looking  fearfully  down  into  the  glen. 
Rip  now  felt  a  vague  apprehension  stealing  over 
him ;  he  looked  anxiously  in  the  same  direction, 
and  perceived  a  strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up 
the  rocks,  and  bending  under  the  weight  of  some 
thing  he  carried  on  his  back.  He  was  surprised 
to  see  any  human  being  in  this  lonely  and  unfre 
quented  place ;  but  supposing  it  to  be  some  one 
of  the  neighborhood  in  need  of  his  assistance, 
he  hastened  down  to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  surprised 
at  the  singularity  of  the  stranger's  appearance. 
He  was  a  short,  square-built  old  fellow,  with  thick 
bushy  hair,  and  a  grizzled  beard.  His  dress  was 
of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion,  —  a  cloth  jerkin 
strapped  round  the  waist  —  several  pair  of  breech 
es,  the  outer  one  of  ample  volume,  decorated 
with  rows  of  buttons  down  the  sides,  and  bunches* 
et  the  knees.  He  bore  on  his  shoulder  a  stout 
keg,  that  seemed  full  of  liquor,  and  made  signs 
for  Rip  to  approach  and  assist  him  with  the 
ioatl,  Though  rather  shy  and  distrustful  of  this 
new  acquaintance,  Rip  complied  with  his  usual 
filacrity ;  and  mutually  relieving  one  another,  thcj 
clambered  up  a  narrow  gully,  apparently  the  dry 


RIP    VAN    WINKLE.  59 

bed  of  a  mountain  torrent.  As  they  ascended, 
Rip  every  now  and  then  heard  long,  rolling  pealsj 
like  distant  thunder,  that  seemed  to  issue  out  of 
a  deep  ravine,  or  rather  cleft,  between  lofty  rocks> 
toward  which  their  rugged  path  conducted.  He 
paused  for  an  instant,  but  supposing  it  to  be  the 
muttering  of  one  of  those  transient  thunder- 
showers  which  often  take  place  in  mountain 
heights,  he  proceeded.  Passing  through  the  ra 
vine,  they  came  to  a  hollow,  like  a  small  am 
phitheatre,  surrounded  by  perpendicular  preci 
pices,  over  the  brinks  of  which  impending  trees 
shot  their  branches,  so  that  you  only  caught 
glimpses  of  the  azure  sky  and  the  bright  evening 
cloud.  During  the  whole  time  Rip  and  his  com 
panion  had  labored  on  in  silence ;  for  though  the 
former  marvelled  greatly  what  could  be  the  object 
of  carry  ing  a  keg  of  liquor  up  this  wild  moun 
tain,  yet  there  was  something  strange  and  incom 
prehensible  about  the  unknown,  that  inspired  awe 
and  checked  familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of 
wonder  presented  themselves.  On  a  level  spot 
in  the  centre  was  a  company  of  odd-looking  per* 
sonages  playing  at  ninepins.  They  were  dressed 
in  a  quaint,  outlandish  fashion ;  some  wore  short 
doublets,  others  jerkins,  with  long  knives  in  their 
belts,  and  most  of  them  had  enormous  breeches, 
of  similar  style  with  that  of  the  guide's.  Their 
visages,  too,  were  peculiar :  one  had  a  large  beard^ 
broad  face,  and  small  piggish  eyes ;  the  face  of 
another  seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  nose,  and 
was  Burinc  anted  by  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat,  set 


GO  .         THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

off  with  a  little  red  cock's  tail.  They  all  had 
beards,  of  \nrions  shapes  and  colors.  There  was 
one  who  seemed  to  be  (lie  commander.  He  waa 
a  stout  old  gentleman,  witli  a  weather-beaten  coun 
tenance  ;  lie  wore  a  laced  doublet,  broad  belt  and 
hanger,  high  crowned  hat  and  feather,  red  stock 
ings,  and  high-heeled  shoes,  with  roses  in  them. 
The  whole  group  reminded  Rip  of  the  figures  in 
an  old  Flemish  painting,  in  the  parlor  of  Dominie 
Van  Shaick,  the  village  parson,  and  which  had 
been  brought  over  from  Holland  at  the  time  of 
the  settlement. 

What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was,  that, 
though  these  folks  were  evidently  amusing  them 
selves,  yet  they  maintained  the  gravest  faces,  the 
most  mysterious  silence,  and  were,  withal,  the 
most  melancholy  party  of  pleasure  he  had  ever 
witnessed.  Nothing  interrupted  the  stillness  of 
the  scene  but  the  noise  of  the  balls,  which,  when 
ever  they  were  rolled,  echoed  along  the  moun 
tains  like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them, 
they  suddenly  desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared 
at  him  with  such  fixed,  statue-like  gaze,  and  such 
strange,  uncouth,  lack-lustre  countenances,  that 
Ills  heart  turned  within  him,  and  his  knees  smoto 
together.  His  companion  now  emptied  the  con* 
tents  of  the  keg  into  large  ilagons,  and  made  signa 
to  him  to  wait  upon  the  company.  lie  obeyed 
with  fear  and  trembling  ;  they  quaffed  the  liquor 
in  profound  silence,  and  then  returned  to  their 
game. 

By  degrees  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  snl> 


HIP   VAN  WINKLE.  61 

sided.  He  even  ventured,  when  ho  eye  was  fixed 
upon  him,  to  taste  the  beverage,  which  he  found 
had  much  of  the  flavor  of  excellent  Hollands.  He 
was  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon  tempted 
to  repeat  the  draught.  One  taste  provoked  an 
other  ;  and  lie  reiterated  his  visits  to  the  flagou 
eo  often  that  at  length  his  senses  were  overpow 
ered,  his  eyes  swam  in  his  head,  his  head  grad 
ually  declined,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoD 
whence  he  had.  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen, 
He  rubbed  his  eyes — it  was  a  bright  sunny  morn 
ing.  The  birds  were  hopping  and  twittering 
among  the  bushes,  and  the  eagle  was  wheeling 
aloft,  and  breasting  the  pure  mountain  breeze. 
"  Surely,"  thought  Rip,  "  I  have  not  slept  here  all 
night."  lie  recalled  the  occurrences  before  he 
fell  asleep.  The  strange  man  with  a  keg  of  liquor 
—  the  mountain  ravine  —  the  wild  retreat  among 
the  rocks  —  the  woe-begonc  party  at  ninepins  — 
the  flagon  —  «  Oh  !  that  flagon  !  that  wicked 
flagon!"  thought  I\ip,  —  "what  excuse  shall 
make  to  Dame  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of 
the  clean,  well-oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an 
oM  firelock  lying  by  him,  the  barrel  incrnsted 
ffith  rust,  the  lock  falling  off,  and  the  stock  worra- 
ralen.  lie  now  suspected  that  the  grave  rois- 
iers  of  the  mountain  had  put  a  trick  upon  him, 
jffid,  having  dosed  him  with  liquor,  had  robbed 
him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  disappeared,  but 
he  might  have  strayed  away  after  a  squirrel  or 
partridge.  He  whistled  after  him,  and  shouted 


62  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

his  name,  but  all  in  vain;  the  echoes  repeated 
his  whistle  and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last 
evening's  gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the 
party,  to  demand  his  dog  and  gun.  As  he  rose 
to  walk,  he  found  himself  stiff  in  the  joints,  and 
wanting  in  his  usual  activity.  "  These  mountain 
beds  do  not  agree  with  me,"  thought  Rip,  "  and  if 
this  frolic  should  lay  me  up  with  a  lit  of  the  rheu 
matism,  I  shall  have  a  blessed  time  with  Damo 
Van  Winkle."  With  some  difficulty  he  got  down 
into  the  glen :  lie  found  the  gully  up  which  he 
and  his  companion  had  ascended  the  preceding 
evening  ;  but  to  his  astonishment  a  mountain 
stream  was  now  foaming  down  it,  leaping  from 
rock  to  rock,  and  filling  the  glen  with  babbling 
murmurs.  He,  however,  made  shift  to  scramble 
up  its  sides,  working  his  toilsome  way  through 
thickets  of  birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-hazel,  and 
sometimes  tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the  wild 
grape-vines  that  twisted  their  coils  or  tendrils  from 
tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a  kind  of  network  in  his 
path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had 
opened  through  the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre ; 
but  no  traces  of  such  opening  remained.  The 
rocks  presented  a  high,  impenetrable  wall,  over 
tvhich  the  torrent  came  tumbling  in  a  sheet  of 
feathery  foam,  and  fell  into  a  broad  deep  baainj 
black  from  the  shadows  of  the  surrounding  forest, 
Here,  then,  poor  Rip  was  brought  to  a  stand, 
He  again  called  and  whistled  after  his  dog ;  ho 
was  only  answered  by  the  cawing  of  a  flock  of 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  6S 

idle  crows,  sporting  high  in  air  about  a  dry  trca 
that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice ;  and  who,  secure 
in  their  elevation,  seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff 
at  the  poor  man's  perplexities.  What  was  to  be 
done  ?  the  morning  was  passing  away,  arid  Hip 
felt  famished  for  want  of  his  breakfast.  Ho 
grieved  to  give  up  his  dog  and  gun  ;  he  dreaded  to 
meet  his  wife ;  but  it  would  not  ao  to  starve  among 
the  mountains.  He  shook  his  head,  shouldered 
the  rusty  firelock,  and,  with  a  heart  full  of  trouble 
and  anxiety,  turned  his  steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a  number 
of  people,  but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  some 
what  surprised  him,  for  he  had  thought  himself 
acquainted  with  every  one  in  the  country  round 
Their  dress,  too,  was  of  a  different  fashion  from 
that  to  which  he  was  accustomed.  They  all  stared 
at  him  with  equal  marks  of  surprise,  and 
ever  they  cast  their  eyes  upon  him,  inv 
stroked  their  chins.  The  constant  recurreiice  of 
this  gesture  induced  Kip,  involuntarily,  to  do  tho 
same,  when,  to  his  astonishment,  he  found  hig 
beard  had  grown  a  foot  long ! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village. 
A  troop  of  strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hoot* 
ing  after  him,  and  pointing  at  his  gray  beard. 
The  dogs,  too,  not  one  of  which  he  recognized 
for  an  old  acquaintance,  barked  at  him  as  he 
passed.  The  very  -village  was  altered  ;  it  waa 
larger  and  more  populous.  There  were  rows  of 
houses  which  he  had  never  seen  before,  and  thoso 
vrhich  had  been  his  familiar  haunts  had  disap 
peared.  Strar.ge  names  were  over  the  doors  — 


61  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

etrange  faces  at  the  windows  —  everything  was 
strange-  His  mind  now  misgave  him  ;  he  began 
to  doubt  whether  both  lie  and  the  world  around 
him  were  not  bewitched.  Surely  this  was  his 
native  village,  which  he  had  left  but  the  day 
before.  There  stood  the  Kaatskill  mountains  — 
there  ran  the  silver  Hudson  at  a  distance  —  there 
was  every  hill  and  dale  precisely  as  it  had  always 
been.  Kip  was  sorely  perplexed.  "  That  flagon 
last  nrght,"  thought  he,  "  has  addled  my  poor 
head  sadly!" 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the 
way  to  his  own  house,  which  he  approached  with 
silent  awe,  expecting  every  moment  to  hear  the 
ehrill  voice  of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  He  found 
the  house  gone  to  decay  —  the  roof  fallen  in,  the 
windows  shattered,  and  the  doors  oflf  the  hinges. 
A  half-starved  dog  that  looked  like  Wolf  was 
nng  about  it.  Rip  called  him  by  name,  but 
the  cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth,  and  passed  on. 
This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed.  "  My  very 
dog,"  sighed  poor  Rip,  "  has  forgotten  me !  " 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth, 
Dame  Van  Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order. 
It  was  empty,  forlorn,  and  apparently  abandoned. 
This  desolateness  overcame  all  his  connubial  fears 
— -  he  called  loudly  for  his  wife  and  children  — - 
the  lonely  chambers  rang  for  a  moment  with  hia 
mce,.  and  then  all  again  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old 
resort,  the  village  inn  —  but  it  too  was  gone.  A 
large  rickety  wooden  building  stood  in  its  place, 
with  great  gaping  windows,  some  of  them  broken 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE.  6-ri 

and  mended  with  old  hats  and  petticoats,  and  o\-?l 
the  door  was  painted,  "  The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jona 
than  Doolittle."  Instead  of  the  great  tree  that 
used  to  shelter  the  quiet  little  Dutch  inn  of  yore, 
there  now  was  reared  a  tall  naked  pole,  with 
something  on  the  top  that  looked  like  a  red  night 
cap,  and  from  it  was  fluttering  a  ilug,  on  which 
was  a  singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes ;  — 
all  this  was  strange  and  incomprehensible.  He 
recognized  on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face 
of  King  George,  under  which  he  had  smoked  so 
many  a  peaceful  pipe  ;  but  even  this  was  singu 
larly  metamorphosed.  The  red  coat  was  changed 
for  one  of  blue  and  bufF,  a  sword  was  held  in  the 
hand  instead  of  a  sceptre,  the  head  was  decorated 
with  a  cocked  hat,  and  underneath  was  painted  in 
large  characters,  GENERAL  WASHINGTON. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the 
door,  but  none  that  Rip  recollected.  The  very 
character  of  the  people  seemed  changed.  There 
was  a  busy,  bustling,  disputatious  tone  about  it, 
instead  of  the  accustomed  phlegm  and  drowsy 
tranquillity.  He  looked  in  vain  for  the  tsage 
Nicholas  Vcdder,  with  his  broad  face,  double  chin, 
and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering  clouds  of  tobacco- 
Bmoke  instead  of  idle  speeches ;  or  Van  Bummel, 
die  schoolmaster,  doling  forth  the  contents  of  an 
ancient  newspaper.  In  place  of  these,  a  lean, 
bilious  -  looking  fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of 
hand  -  bills,  was  haranguing  vehemently  about 
rights  of  citizens  —  elections  —  members  of 
congress  —  liberty  —  Bunker's  Hill  —  heroes  of 
seventy-six  —  and  other  words,  which  were  « 
5 


66  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to  the  bewildered  Van 
Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long,  grizzled 
beard,  his  rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress, 
and  an  army  of  women  and  children  at  his  heel?., 
goon  attracted  the  attention  of  the  tavern  poli 
ticians.  They  crowded  round  him,  eying  him 
from  head  to  foot  with  great  curiosity.  The  ora 
tor  bustled  up  to  him,  and,  drawing  him  partly 
aside,  inquired  "  On  which  side  he  voted  ?  "  Hip 
glared  in  vacant  stupidity.  Another  short  but 
busy  little  fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm,  and,  ris 
ing  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear,  "  Whether  ho 
was  Federal  or  Democrat  ?  "  Rip  was  equally  at 
a  loss  to  comprehend  the  question  ;  when  a  know 
ing,  self-important  old  gentleman,  in  a  sharp 
cocked  hat,  made  his  way  th  ough  the  crowd, 
putting  them  to  the  right  and  left  with  his  elbows 
as  he  passed,  and  planting  himself  before  Van 
Winkle,  with  one  arm  akimbo,  the  other  resting 
on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes  and  sharp  hat  pene 
trating,  as  it  were,  into  his  very  soul,  demanded 
in  an  austere  tone,  "What  brought  him  to  the 
election  with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  mob  ai 
bis  heels ;  and  whether  lie  meant  to  breed  a  rio! 
in  the  village  ?  "  —  "  Alas !  gentlemen,"  cried 
Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "  I  am  a  poor  quiet 
man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal  pubjecl 
of  the  King,  God  bless  him !  " 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  by-standera 
—  "  A  tory  !  a  lory  !  a  spy !  a  refugee  !  hustle 
him  !  away  with  him  !  "  It  was  with  great  dilfi- 
eulty  that  the  self-important  man  in  th/*  cocked 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  67 

hat  restored  order ;  and,  having  assumed  a  ten 
Ibid  austerity  of  brow,  demanded  again  of  the 
unknown  culprit,  what  he  came  there  for,  and 
whom  lie  was  seeking  ?  The  poor  man  humbly 
assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm,  but  merely 
came  there  in  search  of  some  of  his  neighbors, 
who  used  to  keep  about  the  tavern. 

"  Well  —  who  are  they  ?  —  name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired, 
"  Where's  Nicholas  Vedder?" 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an 
old  man  replied,  in  a  thin  piping  voice,  "  Nicholas 
Vedder !  why,  he  is  dead  and  gone  these  eigh 
teen  years !  There  was  a  wooden  tombstone  in 
the  churchyard  that  used  to  tell  all  about  him, 
but  that 's  rotten  and  gone  too." 

"  Where  's  Brom  Dutcher  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  tin*,  begin 
ning  of  the  war ;  some  say  he  was  killed  at  the 
storming  of  Stony  Point  —  others  say  he  was 
drowned  in  a  squall  at  the  foot  of  Antony's  Nose. 
I  don't  know  —  he  never  came  back  aga'n." 

"  Where 's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster?  " 

"  He  went  off  to  the  wars  too,  was  a  {n*eat  mi 
litia  general,  and  is  now  in  congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad 
changes  in  his  home  and  friends,  and  finding 
himself  thus  alone  in  the  world.  Every  answer 
puzzled  him  too,  by  treating  of  such  enormous 
lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters  which  he  could 
aot  understand  :  war  —  congress  —  Stony  Point 
—  he  had  no  courage  to  ask  after  any  more 
friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair,  "  Does  nobody 
here  know  Rip  Van  Winkle  ?  " 


68  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

"  Oh.  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  "  exclaimed  two  01 
three,  "oh,  to  be  sure!  that's  Rip  Van  Winkle 
yonder,  leaning  against  the  tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart 
of  himself,  as  he  went  up  the  mountain  ;  ap 
parently  as  lazy,  and  ceitainly  as  ragged.  The 
poor  fellow  was  now  completely  confounded.  IIo 
doubted  his%  own  identity,  and  whether  he  was 
himself  or  another  man.  In  the  midst  of  hia 
bewilderment,  the  man  in  the  cocked  hat  de 
manded  who  he  was,  and  what  was  his  name. 

"  God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wit's  end  ; 
••  ['m  not  myself —  I  'm  somebody  else  —  that's 
me  yonder  —  no  —  that 's  somebody  else  got  into 
my  shoes  —  I  was  myself  hist  night,  but  I  fell 
asleep  on  the  mountain,  and  they've  changed  my 
gun,  and  everything's  changed,  and  I  'm  changed, 
and  I  can't  tell  what 's  my  name,  or  who  I  am  ! " 

The  by-standers  began  now  to  look  at  each 
other,  nod,  wink  significantly,  and  tap  their 
fingers  against  their  foreheads.  There  was  a 
whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun,  and  keep 
ing  the  old  fellow  from  doing  mischief,  at  the 
very  suggestion  of  which  the  self-important  man 
in  the  cocked  hat  retired  with  some  precipitation. 
At  this  critical  moment  a  fresh,  comely  woman 
pressed  through  the  throng  to  get  a  peep  at  the 
gray-bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby  child  in 
her  arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  began  to 
cry.  "  Hush,  Rip,"  cried  she,  "  hush,  you  little 
fool ;  the  old  man  won't  hurt  you."  The  name  of 
the  child,  the  air  of  the  mother,  the  tone  of  her 
voice,  all  awakened  a  train  of  recollections  in  hi* 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  69 

mind.  "  What  is  your  name,  my  good  woman  ?  " 
asked  lie. 

"Judith  Gardonicr." 

"  And  your  father's  name  ?  " 

"  Ah,  poor  man,  Kip  Van  Winkle  was  his 
name,  but  it 's  twenty  years  since  he  went  a\vay 
from  home  with  his  gun,  and  never  has  hcen 
heard  of  since,  —  his  dog  came  home  without 
him  ;  but  whether  he  shot  himself,  or  was  carried 
fuvay  by  the  Indians,  nobody  can  tell.  I  was 
then  but  a  little  girl." 

Kip  bail  but  one  question  more  to  ask;  but  he 
put  it  with  a  faltering  voice  : 

"  Where  's  your  mother?  " 

"  Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since ; 
she  broke  a  bloodvessel  in  a  fit  of  passion  at  a 
New-England  pedler." 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this 
intelligence.  The  honest  man  could  contain  him 
self  no  longer.  lie  caught  his  daughter  and  her 
child  in  his  arms.  "  I  am  your  father  !  "  cried 
he  —  "Young  Kip  Van  Winkle  once  —  old  Hip 
Van  Winkle  now  !  —  Does  nobody  know  poor 
Rip  Van  Winkle  ?  " 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  totter 
ing  out  from  among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to 
her  brow,  and  peering  under  it  in  his  face  for  a 
moment,  exclaimed,  u  Sure  enough !  it  is  Rip  Van 
Winkle  —  it  is  himself!  Welcome  home  again, 
old  neighbor.  Why,  where  have  you  been  these 
twenty  long  years  ?  " 

Kip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty 
years  had  been  to  him  but  a«  one  night.  The 


70  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

neighbors  stared  when  they  heard  it ;  some  were 
seen  to  wink  at  each  other,  and  put  their  tongues 
in  their  cheeks :  and  the  self-important  man  in 
the  cocked  hat,  who,  when  the  alarm  was  over, 
had  returned  to  the  field,  screwed  down  the  cor 
ners  of  his  mouth,  and  shook  his  head  —  upon 
which  there  was  a  general  shaking  of  the  head 
throughout  the  assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion 
of  old  Peter  Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly 
advancing  up  the  road.  He  was  a  descendant  of 
the  historian  of  that  name,  who  wrote  one  of  tho 
earliest  accounts  of  the  province.  Peter  was  the 
most  ancient  inhabitant  of  the  village,  and  well 
versed  in  all  the  wonderful  events  and  traditions 
of  the  neighborhood.  He  recollected  Rip  at 
once,  and  corroborated  his  story  in  the  most  sat 
isfactory  manner.  He  assured  the  company  that 
it  was  a  fact,  handed  down  from  his  ancestor  the 
historian,  that  the  Kaatskill  mountains  had  always 
been  haunted  by  strange  beings.  That  it  was 
affirmed  that  the  great  Hendrick  Hudson,  tho 
first  discoverer  of  the  river  and  country,  kept  a 
kind  of  vigil  there  every  twenty  years,  with  his 
crew  of  the  Half-moon ;  being  permitted  in  this 
way  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his  enterprise,  and 
keep  a  guard ittn  eye  upon  the  river  and  the 
great  city  called  by  his  name.  That  his  father 
bad  once  seen  them  in  their  old  Dutch  dresses 
playing  at  ninepins  in  a  hollow  of  the  mountain ; 
and  that  he  himself  had  heard,  one  summer  after 
noon,  the  sound  of  their  balls,  like  distant  peula 
of  thunder. 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE.  71 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  companj 
w/roke  up  and  returned  to  the  more  importan. 
concerns  of  the  election.  Rip's  daughter  took 
him  home  to  live  with  her ;  she  had  a  snug, 
well- furnished  house,  and  a  stout,  cheery  farmer 
for  a  husband,  whom  Rip  recollected  for  one  of 
the  urchins  that  used  to  climb  upon  his  back. 
As  to  Rip's  son  and  heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of 
himself,  seen  leaning  against  the  tree,  he  was 
employed  to  work  on  the  farm ;  but  evinced  an 
hereditary  disposition  to  attend  to  anything  else 
but  his  business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits  ;  he 
soon  found  many  of  his  former  cronies,  though 
all  rather  the  worse  for  the  wear  and  tear  of 
time  ;  and  preferred  making  friends  among  the 
rising  generation,  with  whom  he  soon  grew  into 
great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  ar 
rived  at  that  happy  age  when  a  man  can  be  idle 
with  impunity,  he  took  his  place  once  more  on 
the  bench  at  the  inn-door,  and  was  reverenced  as 
one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village,  and  a  chron 
icle  of  the  old  times  "  before  the  war."  It  was 
some  time  before  he  could  get  into  the  regular 
track  of  gossip,  or  could  be  made  to  comprehend 
the  strange  events  that  had  taken  place  during 
bis  torpor.  How  that  there  had  been  a  revolu« 
tionary  war,  —  that  the  country  had  thrown  off 
ilie  yoke  of  old  England,  —  and  that,  instead  of 
being  a  subject  of  his  Majesty  George  the  Third, 
ne  was  now  a  free  citizen  of  the  United  States 
Rip,  in  fact,  was  no  politician  ;  the  changes  of 


72  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

states  and  empires  made  but  little  impression  o* 
him  ;  but  there  was  one  species  of  despotism 
ander  which  he  had  long  groaned,  and  that  was 
—  petticoat  government.  Happily  that  was  at 
an  end ;  he  had  got  his  neck  out  of  the  joke  of 
matrimony,  and  could  go  in  and  out  whenever  ha 
pleased,  without  dreading  the  tyranny  of  Damo 
Van  Winkle.  Whenever  her  name  was  men 
tioned,  however,  he  shook  his  head,  shrugged  hig 
shoulders,,  and  cast  up  his  eyes ;  which  might 
pass  either  for  an  expression  of  resignation  to 
his  fate,  or  joy  at  his  deliverance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger 
that  arrived  at  Mr.  Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  ob 
served,  at  first,  to  vary  on  some  points  every  time 
he  told  it,  which  was,  doubtless,  owing  to  his 
having  so  recently  awaked.  It  at  last  settled 
down  precisely  to  the  tale  I  have  related,  and 
not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in  the  neighborhood 
but  knew  it  by  heart.  Some  always  pretended 
to  doubt  the  reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that  Rip 
had  been  out  of  his  head,  and  that  this  was  one 
point  on  which  he  always  remained  flighty.  The 
old  Dutch  inhabitants,  however,  almost  univer 
sally  gave  it  full  credit.  Even  to  this  day  they 
never  hear  a  thunder-storm  of  a  summer  after 
noon  about  the  Kaatskill,  but  they  say  Hendricb 
Hudson  and  his  crew  are  at  their  game  of  nine 
pins  ;  and  it  is  a  common  wish  of  all  hen-pecked 
husbands  in  the  neighborhood,  when  life  hanga 
heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they  might  have  a 
quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van  Winkle 's  (lagon 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE. 


NOTE. 

The  foregoing  Tale,  one  would  suspect,  had  been  suggested 
to  Mr.  Knickerbocker  by  a  little  German  superstition  about 
the  Emperor  Frederick  der  Rvtlibart,  and  the  Kypphauset 
mountain  :  the  subjoined  note,  however,  which  lie  hail  ap 
pen  dec!  to  the  tale,  shows  that  it  is  an  absolute  fact,  narrated 
«?ith  his  usual  fidelity. 

"The  story  of  Kip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  incredible  t€ 
many,  but  nevertheless  I  give  it  my  full  belief,  for  I  know 
the  vicinity  of  our  old  Dutch  settlements  to  have  been  very 
subject  to  marvellous  events  and  appearances.  Indeed,  1 
have  heard  many  stranger  stories  than  this,  in  the  village! 
along  the  Hudson  ;  all  of  which  were  too  well  authenticated  to 
admit  of  a  doubt.  I  have  even  talked  with  Hip  Van  Winkle 
myself,  who,  when  last  I  saw  him,  was  a  very  venerable  old 
man,  and  so  perfectly  rational  and  consistent  on  every  other 
point,  that  I  think  no  conscientious  person  could  refuse  to  take 
this  into  the  bargain  ;  nay,  I  have  seen  a  certificate  on  the 
subject  taken  before  a  country  justice  and  signed  with  a  cross, 
in  the  justice's  own  handwriting.  The  story,  therefore,  is  be 
yond  the  possibility  of  doubt. 

«  D.  K.» 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The  following  are  travelling  notes  from  a  memorandum- 
book  of  Mr.  Knickerbocker. 

The  Kaatsberg,  or  Catskill  Mountains,  have  always  been  a 
region  full  of  fable.  The  Indians  considered  them  the  abode 
of  spirits,  who  influenced  the  weather,  spreading  sunshine  or 
clouds  over  the  landscape,  and  sending  good  or  bad  hunting- 
seasons.  They  were  ruled  by  an  old  squaw  spirit,  said  to  be 
their  mother.  She  dwelt  on'the  highest  peak  of  the  Cntskills, 
and  had  charge  of  the  doors  of  day  and  night  to  open  and 
shut  them  at  the  proper  hour.  She  hung  up  the  new  moons 
in  the  skies,  and  cut  up  the  old  ones  into  stars.  In  times  ot 
drought,  if  properly  propitiated,  she  would  spin  light  summer 
clouds  out  of  cobwebs  and  morning  dew,  and  send  them  off 
from  the  crest  of  the  mountain,  flake  after  flake,  like  flakes 
of  carded  cotton,  to  float  in  the  air;  until,  dissolved  by  the 
heat  of  the  sun,  they  would  fall  in  gentle  showers,  causing 
the  grass  to  spring,  the  fruits  to  ripen,  anil  the  corn  to  glow 
an  inch  an  hour.  If  displeased,  however,  she  would  brew  up 
clouds  black  as  ink,  sitting  in  the  midst  of  them  like  a  bottle- 
bellied  spider  in  the  midst  of  its  web;  and  when  these  clouds 
broke,  woe  betide  the  valleys  ! 

In  old  times,  say  the  Indian  traditions,  there  was  a  kind  of 
Manitou  or  Spirit,  who  kept  about  the  wildest  recesses  of  the 
Catskill  Mountains,  and  took  a  mischievous  pleasure  in  wreak- 


74 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


ing  nil  kinds  of  evils  and  vexations  upon  Ihe  red  men.  Some 
times  he  would  assume  the  form  of  a  bear,  a  panther,  or  a 
deer,  lead  the  bewildered  hunter  a  weary  chase  through  tan 
gled  forests  and  among  ragged  rocks  ;  and  then  spring  oft 
with  A  loud  ho!  ho!  leaving  him  aghast  on  the  brink  of  u 
Deeding  precipice  or  raging  torrent. 

The  favorite  abode  of  this  Manitou  is  stil  shown.  It  is  a 
ipcat  rock  or  cliff  on  the  loneliest  part  of  the  mountains,  and, 
n-om  the  flowering  vines  which  clamber  about  it,  and  the  wild 
flowers  which  abound  in  its  neighborhood,  is  known  by  tLe 
came  of  the  Garden  Rock.  Near  the  foot  of  it  is  a  .small  lake, 
the  haunt  of  the  -solitary  bittern,  with  water-snakes  basking 
in  the  sun  on  the  leaves  of  the  pond-lilies  which  lie  on  the 
surface.  This  place  was  held  in  great  awe  by  the  Indians, 
insomuch  that  the  boldest  hunter  would  not  pursue  his  game 
within  its  precincts.  Once  upon  a  time,  however,  a  hunter 
who  had  lost  his  way,  penetrated  to  the  Garden  Rock,  where 
he  beheld  a  number'of  gourds  placed  in  the  crotches  of  trees. 
One  of 'these  he  seized  and  made  off  with  it,  but  in  the  hurry 
of  his  retreat  he  let  it  fall  among  the  rocks,  when  a  great 
Btream  gushed  forth,  which  washed  him  away  and  swept  him 
down  precipices,  where  he  was  dashed  to  pieces,  and  the  stream 
made  its  way  to  the  Hudson,  and  continues  to  flow  to  the  pres 
ent  dav;  being  the  identical  stream  known  bv  the  name  of 
IbeEiaters-kill. 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA. 


"  Methmks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  puissant  nation, 
rousing  herself  like  a  strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  hei 
invincible  locks:  methinks  I  see  her  as  an  eagle,  mewing  hef 
mighty  youth,  and  kindling  her  endazzled  eyes  at  the  full 
mid-day  beam."  —  MILTON  ON  THE  LIBERTY  OF  THE  PRESS. 

|T  is  with  feelings  of  deep  regret  that  I 
observe  the  literary  animosity  daily  grow 
ing  up  between  England  and  America. 
Great  curiosity  has  been  awakened  of  late  with 
respect  to  the  United  States,  and  the  London 
press  has  teemed  with  volumes  of  travels  through 
the  Republic ;  but  they  seem  intended  to  diffuse 
error  rather  than  knowledge ;  and  so  successful 
have  they  been,  that,  notwithstanding  the  constant 
intercourse  between  the  nations,  there  is  no  people 
concerning  whom  the  great  mass  of  the  British 
public  have  less  pure  information,  or  entertain 
more  numerous  prejudices. 

English  travellers  are  the  best  and  the  worst 
ID  the  world.  Where  no  motives  of  pride  or 
interest  intervene,  none  can  equal  them  for  pro 
found  and  philosophical  views  of  society,  or  faith 
•  ful  and  graphical  descriptions  of  external  objects 
but  when  either  the  interest  or  reputation  of  thci? 
own  country  comes  in  collision  with  that  of  ao- 

75 


76  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

other,  they  go  to  the  opposite  extreme,  and  forgcl 
their  usual  probity  and  candor  in  the  indulgence 
of  splenetic  remark  and  an  illiberal  spirit  of  ridi 
cule. 

Hence,  their  travels  are  more  honest  and  accii- 
rate  the  more  remote  the  country  described.  I 
would  place  implicit  confidence  in  an  Englishman's 
descriptions  of  the  regions  beyond  the  cataracts 
of  the  Nile  ;  of  unknown  islands  in  the  Yellow 
Sea;  of  the  interior  of  India;  or  of  any  other 
tract  which  other  travellers  might  be  apt  to  pict 
ure  out  with  the  illusions  of  their  fancies  ;  but 
I  would  cautiously  receive  his  account  of  his 
immediate  neighbors,  and  of  those  nations  with 
which  he  is  in  habits  of  most  frequent  intercourse. 
However  I  might  be  disposed  to  trust  his  probity, 
I  dare  not  trust  his  prejudices. 

It  has  also  been  the  peculiar  lot  of  our  country 
to  be  visited  by  the  worst  kind  of  English  trav 
ellers.  While  men  of  philosophical  spirit  and 
cultivated  minds  have  been  sent  from  England  to 
ransack  the  poles,  to  penetrate  the  deserts,  and 
to  study  the  manners  and  customs  of  barbarous 
nations  with  which  she  can  have  no  permanent 
intercourse  of  profit  or  pleasure,  it  has  been  left 
to  the  brokendown  tradesman,  the  scheming  ad» 
venturer,  the  wandering  mechanic,  the  Mnnchcfs 
tcr  and  Birmingham  agent,  to  be  her  oracles  re 
specting  America.  From  sucli  sources  she  ifl 
content  to  receive  her  information  respecting  a 
country  in  a  singular  state  of  moral  and  physical 
development ;  a  country  in  which  one  of  tlie  great 
est  political  experiments  in  the  history  of  th« 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.        77 

tvorld  is  now  performing  ;  and  which  presents 
the  m)st  profound  and  momentous  studies  to  the 
•statesman  and  the  philosopher. 

That  such  men  should  give  prejudicial  accounts 
of  America  is  not  a  matter  of  surprise.  The 
themes  it  offers  for  contemplation  arc  too  vast 
and  elevated  for  their  capacities.  The  national 
character  is  yet  in  a  state  of  fermentation ;  it 
may  have  its  frothiness  and  sediment,  but  its  in 
gredients  are  sound  and  wholesome  ;  it  has  already 
given  proofs  of  powerful  and  generous  qualities ; 
and  the  whole  promises  to  settle  down  into  some 
thing  substantially  excellent.  But  the  causes 
which  are  operating  to  strengthen  and  ennoble  it, 
and  its  daily  indications  of  admirable  properties, 
are  all  lost  upon  these  purblind  observers ;  who 
are  only  affected  by  the  little  asperities  incident 
to  its  present  situation.  They  are  capable  of  judg 
ing  oi.ly  of  the  surface  of  things  ;  of  those  matters 
wh'ch  come  in  contact  with  their  private  interests 
and  uorsoMul  gratifications.  They  miss  some  of  the 
Pnug  coiiveuiences  and  petty  comforts  which  be 
long  to  an  oid,  highly  finished,  and  over-populous 
state  of  sooei-v  ;  where  the  ranks  of  useful  labor 
are  crowded,  ai  d  many  earn  a  painful  and  servile 
subsistence  bv  studying  the  very  caprices  of  appe 
tite  and  self-indulgence.  These  minor  comforts, 
however,  are  all-important  in  the  estimation  of 
narrow  minds  ;  which  either  do  not  perceive,  or 
will  not  acknowledge,  that  they  are  more  than 
counterbalanced  among  us  by  great  and  generally 
diffused  blessings. 

They  may,  perhaps,  have  been  disappointed  la 


78  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

some  unreasonable  expectation  of  .sudden 
They  may  have  pictured  America  to  them<;elves 
an  El  Dorado,  where  gold  and  silver  abounded, 
and  the  natives  were  lacking  in  sagacity,  and 
where  they  were  to  become  strangely  and  sud 
denly  rich  in  some  unforeseen  but  easy  manner. 
The  same  weakness  of  mind  that  indulges  absurd 
expectations  produces  petulance  in  disappoint 
ment.  Such  persons  become  embittered  against 
the  country  on  finding  that  there,  as  everywhere 
else,  a  man  must  sow  before  he  can  reap  ;  must 
win  wealth  by  industry  and  talent ;  and  must  con 
tend  with  the  common  difficulties  of  nature,  and 
the  shrewdness  of  an  intelligent  and  enterprising 
people. 

Perhaps,  through  mistaken  or  ill-directed  hos 
pitality,  or  from  the  prompt  disposition  to  cheer 
and  countenance  the  stranger,  prevalent  among 
my  countrymen,  they  may  have  been  treated  with 
unwonted  respect  in  America ;  and  having  been 
accustomed  all  their  lives  to  consider  themselves 
below  the  surface  of  good  society,  and  brought  up 
in  a  servile  feeling  of  inferiority,  they  become 
arrogant  on  the  common  boon  of  civility :  they  at 
tribute  to  the  lowliness  of  others  their  own  eleva 
tion  ;  and  underrate  a  society  where  there  are  no 
artificial  distinctions,  and  where,  by  any  chance, 
such  individuals  as  themselves  can  rise  to  conse 
quence. 

One  would  suppose,  however,  that  information 
coming  from  such  sources,  on  a  subject  where  thfl 
truth  is  so  desirable,  would  be  received  with  cau 
tion  by  the  censors  of  the  press  ;  that  the  motivci 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.        l\j 

of  these  men,  their  veracity,  thtir  opportunities* 
of  inquiry  and  observation,  and  their  capacities 
for  judging  correctly,  would  be  rigorously  scruti 
nized  before  their  evidence  was  admitted,  in  such 
sweeping  extent,  against  a  kindred  nation.  The 
very  reverse,  however,  is  the  case,  and  it  fur 
nishes  a  striking  instance  of  human  inconsistency. 
Nothing  can  surpass  the  vigilance  with  which 
English  critics  will  examine  the  credibility  of 
the  traveller  who  publishes  an  account  of  some 
distant  and  comparatively  unimportant  country. 
How  warily  will  they  compare  the  measurements 
of  a  pyramid,  or  the  descriptions  of  a  ruin ;  and 
how  sternly  will  they  censure  any  inaccuracy  in 
these  contributions  of  merely  curious  knowledge 
while  they  will  receive,  with  eagerness  and  un 
hesitating  faith,  the  gross  misrepresentations  of 
coarse  and  obscure  writers,  concerning  a  country 
with  which  their  own  is  placed  in  the  most  im 
portant  and  delicate  relations.  Nay,  they  will 
even  make  these  apocryphal  volumes  text-books, 
on  which  to  enlarge  with  a  zeal  and  an  ability 
worthy  of  a  more  generous  cause. 

I  shall  not,  however,  dwell  on  this  irksome  and 
hackneyed  topic ;  nor  should  I  have  adverted  to 
it  but  for  the  undue  interest  apparently  taken  in 
it  by  my  countrymen,  and  certain  injurious  effects 
which  I  apprehended  it  might  produce  upon  the 
national  feeling.  We  attach  too  much  conse 
quence  to  these  attacks.  They  cannot  do  us  any 
essential  injury.  The  tissue  of  misrepresenta 
tions  attempted  to  be  woven  round  us  are  like 
cobwebs  woven  round  the  limbs  of  an  infon? 


80  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

giant.  Our  country  continually  outgrows  them. 
One  falsehood  after  another  falls  off  of  itself, 
We  have  but  to  live  on,  and  every  day  we  live  a 
whole  volume  of  refutation. 

All  the  writers  of  England  united,  if  we  could 
for  i  moment  suppose  their  great  minds  stooping 
to  so  unworthy  a  combination,  could  not  conceal 
our  rapidly  growing  importance  and  matchless 
prosperity.  They  could  not  conceal  that  these 
are  owing,  not  merely  to  physical  and  local,  but 
also  to  moral  causes  —  to  the  political  liberty, 
ihe  general  diffusion  of  knowledge,  the  preva 
lence  of  sound  moral  and  religious  principles, 
which  give  force  and  sustained  energy  to  the 
character  of  a  people,  and  which,  in  fact,  have 
been  the  acknowledged  and  wonderful  supporters 
of  their  own  national  power  and  glory. 

But  why  are  we  so  exquisitely  alive  to  the 
aspersions  of  England  ?  Why  do  we  suffer  our 
selves  to  be  so  affected  by  the  contumely  she  has 
endeavored  to  cast  upon  us  ?  It  is  not  in  the 
opinion  of  England  alone  that  honor  lives,  and 
reputation  has  its  being.  The  world  at  large  is 
the  arbiter  of  a  nation's  fame;  with  its  thousand 
eyes  it  witnesses  a  nation's  deeds,  and  from  their 
collective  testimony  is  national  glory  or  national 
disgrace  established. 

For  ourselves,  therefore,  it  is  comparatively  of 
but  little  importance  whether  England  does  us 
justice  or  not ;  it  is,  perhaps,  of  far  more  impor 
tance  to  herself.  She  is  instilling  anger  and 
resentment  into  the  bosom  of  a  youthful  nation, 
to  grow  with  its  growth  and  strengthen  with  itl 


ENGLISH   WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.        81 

strength.  If  in  America,  as  some  of  her  writers 
sre  laboring  to  convince  her,  she  is  hereafter  \c 
find  an  invidious  rival,  and  a  gigantic  foe,  she 
may  thank  those  very  writers  for  having  provok 
ed  rivalship  and  irritated  hostility.  Every  ono 
knows  the  all-pervading  influence  of  literature  at 
the  present  day,  and  how  much  the  opinions  and 
passions  of  mankind  are  under  its  control.  The 
mere  contests  of  the  sword  are  temporary ;  their 
wounds  are  but  in  the  flesh,  and  it  is  the  pride 
of  the  generous  to  forgive  and  forget  them ;  but 
the  slanders  of  the  pen  pierce  to  the  heart ;  they 
rankle  longest  in  the  noblest  spirits ;  they  dwell 
ever  present  in  the  mind,  and  render  it  morbidly 
sensitive  to  the  most  trifling  collision.  It  is  but 
seldom  that  any  one  overt  act  produces  hostilities 
between  two  nations. ;  there  exists,  most  commonly, 
a  previous  jealousy  and  ill-will,  a  predisposition 
to  take  offence.  Trace  these  to  their  cause,  and 
how  often  will  they  be  found  to  originate  in  the 
mischievous  effusions  of  mercenary  writers,  who, 
secure  in  their  closets,  and  for  ignominious  bread, 
concoct  and  circulate  the  venom  that  is  to  inflame 
the  generous  and  the  brave. 

I  am  not  laying  too  much  stress  upon  this 
point ;  for  it  applies  most  emphatically  to  our  par 
ticular  case.  Over  no  nation  does  the  press  hold 
a  more  absolute  control  than  over  the  people  of 
America  ;  for  the  universal  education  of  the 
purest  classes  makes  every  individual  a  reader. 
There  is  nothing  published  in  England  on  the 
subject  of  our  country  that  does  not  circulate 
through  every  part  of  it.  There  is  not  a  caJ- 


82  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

tunny  dropped  from  English  pen,  nor  an  uu 
worthy  sarcasm  uttered  by  an  English  statesman, 
that  does  not  go  to  blight  good-will,  and  add  to 
the  mass  of  latent  resentment.  Possessing,  then, 
as  England  does,  the  fountain-head  whence  the 
literature  of  the  language  flows,  how  completely 
is  it  in  her  power,  and  how  truly  is  it  her  duty, 
to  make  it  the  medium  of  amiable  and  magnani 
mous  feeling  —  a  stream  where  the  two  nations 
might  meet  together,  and  drink  in  peace  and 
kindness.  Should  she,  however,  persist  in  turn 
ing  it  to  waters  of  bitterness,  the  time  may  come 
when  she  may  repent  her  folly.  The  present 
friendship  of  America  may  be  of  but  little  mo 
ment  to  her,  but  the  future  destinies  of  that 
country  do  not  admit  of  a  doubt ;  over  those  of 
England  there  lower  some  -shadows  of  uncer 
tainty.  Should,  then,  a  day  of  gloom  arrive  ; 
should  these  reverses  overtake  her,  from  which 
the  proudest  empires  have  not  been  exempt ;  she 
may  look  back  with  regret  at  her  infatuation  iii 
repulsing  from  her  side  a  nation  she  might  have 
grappled  to  her  bosom,  and  thus  destroying  her 
only  chance  for  real  friendship  beyond  the  boun 
daries  of  her  own  dominions. 

There  is  a  general  impression  in  England,  that 
the  people  of  the  United  States  are  inimical 
to  the  parent- country.  It  is  one  of  the  errors 
which  have  been  diligently  propagated  by  design 
ing  writers.  There  is,  doubtless,  considerabla 
political  hostility,  and  a  general  soreness  at  the 
illiberality  of  the  English  press ;  but,  generally 
Bpcaking,  the  prepossessions  of  the  pecplo  BTH 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.        83 

strongly  in  favor  of  England.  Indeed,  at  ona 
time  they  amounted,  in  many  parts  of  the  Union, 
to  an  absurd  degree  of  bigotry.  The  bare  name 
of  Englishman  was  a  passport  to  the  confidence 
and  hospitality  of  every  family,  and  too  often 
gave  a,  transient  currency  to  the  worthless  and 
the  ungrateful.  Throughout  the  country  them 
was  something  of  enthusiasm  connected  with  tho 
idea  of  England.  We  looked  to  it  with  a  hal 
lowed  feeling  of  tenderness  and  veneration,  as 
the  land  of  our  forefathers — the  august  repository 
of  the  monuments  and  antiquities  of  our  race  — — 
the  birthplace  and  mausoleum  of  the  sages  and 
heroes  of  our  paternal  history.  After  our  own 
country,  there  was  none  in  whose  glory  we  more 
delighted  —  none  whose  good  opinion  we  were 
more  anxious  to  possess  —  none  towards  which 
our  hearts  yearned  Avith  such  throbbings  of  warm 
consanguinity.  Even  during  the  late  war,  when 
ever  there  was  the  least  opportunity  for  kind 
feelings  to  spring  forth,  it  was  the  delight  of  the 
generous  spirits  of  our  country  to  show  that,  in 
the  midst  of  hostilities,  they  still  kept  alive  the 
sparks  of  future  friendship. 

Is  all  this  to  be  at  an  end  ?  Is  this  golden 
band  of  kindred  sympathies,  so  rare  between  na 
tions,  to  be  broken  forever?  Perhaps  it  is  for 
the  best :  it  may  dispel  an  illusion  which  might 
have  kept  us  in  meiiail  vassalage,  —  which  mi^ht 
have  interfered  occasionally  with  our  true  in 
te rests,  and  prevented  the  growth  of  pir.per  na 
tioiml  pride.  15-ut  it  is  hard  to  give  up  the  kio 
dred  tie !  and  there  are  let- lings  dearer  than  Uv 


84  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

teiest  —  closer  to  the  heart  than  pride  —  that 
will  si  ill  niukc  us  ca*t  back  a  look  of  regret,  ua 
we  wander  farther  and  farther  from  the  paternal 
roof,  and  lament  the  waywardness  of  the  parent 
that  would  repel  the  affections  of  the  child. 

Short-sighted  and  injudicious,  however,  as  the 
conduct  of  England  may  be  in  this  system  of 
aspersion,  recrimination  on  our  part  would  be 
equally  ill-judged.  I  speak  not  of  a  prompt  and 
spirited  vindication  of  our  country,  nor  the  keen 
est  east  igation  of  her  slanderers,  —  but  I  allude 
to  a  disposition  to  retaliate  in  kind  ;  to  retort 
sarcasm,  and  inspire  prejudice  ;  which  seems  to 
be  spreading  widely  among  our  writers.  Let  us 
'  guard  particularly  against  such  a  temper,  for  it 
would  double  the  evil  instead  of  redressing  the 
wrong.  Nothing  is  so  easy  and  inviting  as  the 
retort  of  abuse  and  sarcasm  ;  but  it  is  a  paltry 
and  an  unprofitable  contest.  It  is  the  alternative 
of  a  morbid  mind,  fretted  into  petulance  rather 
than  warmed  into  indignation.  If  England  is 
willing  to  permit  the  mean  jealousies  of  trade,  or 
the  rancorous  animosities  of  politics,  to  deprave 
the  integrity  of  her  press,  and  poison  the  fountain 
of  public  opinion,  let  us  beware  of  her  example. 
She  may  deem  it  her  interest  to  diffuse  error,  and 
engender  antipathy,  for  the  purpose  of  checking 
emigration  ;  we  have  no  purpose  of  the  kind  to 
serve.  Neither  have  we  any  spirit  of  national 
jealousy  to  gratify,  for  as  yet,  in  all  our  rivalships 
with  England,  we  are  the  rising  and  the  gaining 
party.  There  can  be  no  end  to  answer,  therefore, 
but  the  gratification  of  resentment — a  mere  spiril 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.        85 

of  retaliation  ;  and  even  that  is  impotent.  Oui 
retorts  are  never  rcpublished  in  England :  they 
fall  short,  therefore,  of  their  aim  ;  but  they  foster  a 
querulous  and  peevish  temper  among  our  writers ; 
they  sour  the  sweet  flow  of  our  early  literature, 
nnd  sow  thorns  and  brambles  among  its  blossoms. 
What  is  still  worse,  they  circulate  through  our 
0\vn  country,  and,  as  far  as  they  have  effect,  excite 
virulent  national  prejudices.  This  last  is  the  evil 
most  especially  to  be  deprecated.  Governed,  as 
we  are,  entirely  by  public  opinion,  the  utmost  care 
should  be  taken  to  preserve  the  purity  of  the 
public  mind.  Knowledge  is  power,  and  truth  is 
knowledge  ;  whoever,  therefore,  knowingly  propa 
gates  a  prejudice,  wilfully  saps  the  foundation  of 
his  country's  strength. 

The  members  of  a  republic,  above  all  other 
men,  should  be  candid  and  dispassionate.  They 
are,  individually,  portions  of  the  sovereign  mind 
and  sovereign  will,  and  should  be  enabled  to  come 
to  all  questions  of  national  concern  with  calm  and 
unbiassed  judgments.  From  the  peculiar  nature 
of  our  relations  with  England,  we  must  have 
more  frequent  questions  of  a  difficult  and  delicate 
character  with  her  than  with  any  other  nation,  — 
questions  that  affect  the  most  acute  and  excitable 
feelings ;  and  as,  in  the  adjusting  of  these,  our 
national  measures  must  ultimately  be  determined 
6y  popular  sentiment,  we  cannot  be  too  anxiously 
attentive  to  purify  it  from  all  latent  passion  oi 
prepossession. 

Opening,  too,  as  we  do,  an  asylum  for  stran 
gers  from  every  portion  of  the  earth,  we  should 


86  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

receive  all  with  impartiality.  It  should  be  om 
pride  to  exhibit  an  example  of  one  nation,  at  least, 
destitute  of  national  antipathies,  and  exercising 
uot  merely  the  overt  acts  of  hospitality,  but  those 
more  rare  and  noble  courtesies  which  spring  from 
Lberality  of  opinion. 

What  have  we  to  do  with  national  prejudices  ? 
They  are  the  inveterate  diseases  of  old  countries, 
contracted  in  rude  and  ignorant  ages,  when  na 
tions  knew  but  little  of  each  other,  and  looked 
beyond  their  own  boundaries  with  distrust  and 
hostility.  We,  on  the  contrary,  have  sprung  into 
national  existence  in  an  enlightened  and  philo 
sophic  age,  when  the  different  parts  of  the  habi 
table  world,  and  the  various  branches  of  the  hu 
man  family,  have  been  indefatigably  studied  and 
made  known  to  each  other  ;  and  we  forego  the 
ad  vantages  of  our  birth  if  we  do  not  shake  off 
the  national  prejudices,  as  we  would  the  local 
superstitions,  of  the  old  world. 

But  above  all  let  us  not  be  influenced  by  any 
angry  feelings,  so  far  as  to  shut  our  eyes  to  the 
perception  of  what  is  really  excellent  and  amia 
ble  in  the  English  character.  We  arc  a  young 
I  people,  necessarily  an  imitative  one,  and  must 
take  our  examples  and  models,  in  a  great  degree, 
from  the  existing  nations  of  Europe.  There  is 
no  country  more  worthy  of  our  study  than  Eng 
land.  The  spirit  of  her  constitution  is  most  anal 
ogous  to  ours.  The  manners  of  her  people  — 
their  intellectual  activity  —  their  freedom  of  opin 
ion  —  their  habits  of  thinking  on  those  subjects 
concern  the  clearest  interests  and  most  sa« 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA.        87 

ered  charities  of  private  life,  are  all  congenial  tfl 
tli3  American  character,  and,  in  fact,  are  all  in 
trinsically  excellent ;  for  it  is  in  the  moral  feeling 
of  the  people  that  the  deep  foundations  of  British 
prosperity  are  laid  ;  and  however  the  superstruct- 
11  re  may  be  time-worn,  or  overrun  by  abuses,  there 
must  be  something  solid  in  the  basis,  admirable  in 
the  materials,  and  stable  in  the  structure  of  an 
edifice  that  so  long  has  towered  unshaken  amidst 
the  tempests  of  the  world. 

Let  it  be  the  pride  of  our  "writers,  therefore, 
discarding  all  feelings  of  irritation,  and  disdaining 
to  retaliate  the  illiberally  of  British  authors,  to 
speak  of  the  English  nation  without  prejudice, 
and  with  determined  candor.  While  they  rebuke 
the  indiscriminating  bigotry  with  which  some  of 
our  countrymen  admire  and  imitate  everything 
English,  merely  because  it  is  English,  let  them 
frankly  point  out  what  is  really  worthy  of  appro 
bation.  We  may  thus  place  England  before  us 
as  a  perpetual  volume  of  reference,  wherein  are 
recorded  sound  deductions  from  ages  of  experi 
ence  ;  and  while  we  avoid  the  errors  and  absurd 
ities  which  may  have  crept  into  the  pnge,  we  may 
draw  thence  golden  maxims  of  practical  wisdom, 
wherewith  to  strengthen  and  to  embellish  our  na 
tioruil  cliaracter. 


RURAL   LIFE   IN   ENGLAND. 


Oh!  friendly  to  the  hest  pursuits  of  man, 
Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peace,    - 
Domestic  life  in  rural  pleasures  past ! 

COWTER. 

'HE  stranger  who  would  form  a  correct 
opinion  of  the  English  character  must 
not  confine  his  observations  to  the  me 
tropolis.  He  must  go  forth  into  the  country ;  lie 
must  sojourn  in  villages  and  hamlets  ;  he  must 
visit  castles,  villas,  farm-houses,  cottages ;  he  must 
winder  through  parks  and  gardens  ;  along  hedges 
and  green  lanes  ;  he  must  loiter  about  country 
churches ;  attend  wakes  and  fairs,  and  other  rural 
festivals  ;  and  cope  with  the  people  in  all  their 
conditions,  and  all  their  habits  and  humors. 

In  some  countries  the  large  cities  absorb  the 
wealth  and  fashion  of  the  nation  ;  they  are  the 
only  fixed  abodes  of  elegant  and  intelligent  society, 
and  the  country  is  inhabited  almost  entirely  by 
boorish  peasantry.  In  England,  on  the  contrary, 
the  metropolis  is  a  mere  gathering-place,  or  gen 
eral  rendezvous,  of  the  polite  classes,  where  they 
devote  a  small  portion  of  the  year  to  a  hurry  of 
gayety  and  dissipation,  and,  having  indulged  this 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND.  89 

fcind  of  carnival,  return  again  to  the  apparently 
more  congenial  habits  of  rural  life.  The  various 
orders  of  society  are  therefore  diffused  over  the 
whole  surface  of  the  kingdom,  and  the  most  re 
tired  neighborhoods  afford  specimens  of  the  differ 
ent  ranks. 

The  English,  in  fact,  are  strongly  gifted  with 
the  rural  feeling.  They  possess  a  quick  scnsibil° 
ity  to  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  a  keen  relish 
for  the  pleasures  and  employments  of  the  coun 
try.  This  passion  seems  inherent  in  them.  Even 
the  inhabitants  of  cities,  born  and  brought  up 
among  brick  walls  and  bustling  streets,  enter  with 
facility  into  rural  habits,  and  evince  a  tact  for 
rural  occupation.  The  merchant  has  his  snug  re 
treat  in  the  vicinity  of  the  metropolis,  where  he 
often  displays  as  much  pride  and  zeal  in  the  cul 
tivation  of  his  flower-garden,  and  the  maturing 
of  his  fruits,  as  he  does  in  the  conduct  of  his  busi 
ness,  and  the  success  of  a  commercial  enterprise. 
Even  those  less  fortunate  individuals  who  are 
doomed  to  pass  their  lives  in  the  midst  of  din 
and  traffic,  contrive  to  have  something  that  shall 
remind  them  of  the  green  aspect  of  nature.  In 
the  most  dark  and  dingy  quarters  of  the  city,  the 
drawing-room  window  resembles  frequently  a 
bank  of  flowers  ;  every  spot  capable  of  vegeta 
tion  has  its  grass-plot  and  flower-bed  ;  and  every 
square  its  mimic  park,  laid  out  with  picturesque 
taste,  and  gleaming  with  refreshing  verdure. 

Those  who  see  the  Englishman  only  in  town 
are  apt  to  form  an  unfavorable  opinion  of  his  so 
cial  character.  He  is  either  absorbed  i  i  business* 


90  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

or  distracted  by  the  thousand  engagements  thai 
dissipate  time,  thought,  and  fueling  in  this  huge 
metrop  >lis.  He  has,  therefore,  too  commonly  a 
look  of  hurry  and  abstraction.  Wherever  he  hap 
pens  to  be,  lie  is  on  the  point  of  going  somewhere 
else  ;  at  the  moment  he  is  talking  on  one  subject, 
Lis  mind  is  wandering  to  another;  and  while  pay 
ing  a  friendly  visit,  he  is  calculating  how  he  shall 
economize  time  so  as  to  pay  the  other  visits  allot 
ted  in  the  morning.  An  immense  metropolis,  like 
London,  is  calculated  to  make  men  selfish  and  un 
interesting.  In  their  casual  and  transient  meet 
ings  they  can  but  deal  briefly  in  commonplaces. 
They  present  but  the  cold  superficies  of  character 
—  its  rich  and  genial  qualities  have  no  time  to  be 
warmed  into  a  flow. 

It  is  in  the  country  that  the  Englishman  gives 
scope  to  his  natural  feelings.  He  breaks  loose 
gladly  from  the  cold  formalities  and  negative  ci 
vilities  of  town,  throws  off  his  habits  of  shy  re 
serve,  and  becomes  joyous  and  free-hearted.  He 
manages  to  collect  round  him  all  the  conveniences 
and  elegancies  of  polite  life,  and  to  banish  its  re 
straints.  His  country-seat  abounds  with  every 
requisite,  either  for  studious  retirement,  tasteful 
gratification,  or  rural  exercise.  Books,  paintings, 
music,  horses,  dogs,  and  sporting  implements  of 
all  kinds,  are  at  hand.  He  puts  no  constraint 
either  upon  his  guests  or  himself,  but  in  the  true 
spirit  r f  hospitality  provides  the  means  of  enjoy 
ment,  and  leaves  every  one  to  partake  according 
to  his  inclination. 

The  taste  of  Ihe  English  in  the  cultivation  of 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND.  9J 

land,  and  in  what  is  called  landscape-gardening, 
is  unrivalled.  They  have  studied  nature  intently, 
and  discover  an  exquisite  sense  of  her  beauti 
ful  forms  and  harmonious  combinations.  Those 
charms  which  in  other  countries  she  lavishes  in 
wild  solitudes,  are  here  assembled  round  the 
haunts  of  domestic  life.  They  seem  to  have 
caught  her  coy  and  furtive  graces,  and  spread 
them,  like  witchery,  about  their  rural  abodes. 

Nothing  can  be  more  imposing  than  the  mag 
nificence  of  English  park  scenery.  Vast  lawns 
that  extend  like  sheets  of  vivid  green,  with  here 
and  there  clumps  of  gigantic  trees,  heaping  up 
rich  piles  of  foliage  :  the  solemn  pomp  of  groves 
and  woodland  glades,  with  the  deer  trooping  iu 
silent  herds  across  them  ;  the  hare,  bounding  away 
to  the  covert ;  or  the  pheasant,  suddenly  bursting 
upon  the  wing :  the  brook,  taught  to  wind  in  nat- 
mal  meanderings  or  expand  into  a  glassy  lake: 
the  sequestered  pool,  reflecting  the  quivering  trees, 
with  the  yellow  leaf  sleeping  on  its  bosom,  and 
the  trout  roaming  fearlessly  about  its  limpid  wa 
fers.  ;  while  some  rustic  temple  or  sylvan  statue, 
grown  green  and  dank  with  age,  gives  an  air  of 
ckv*sic  sanctity  to  the  seclusion. 

These  are  but  o,  few  of  the  features  of  park 
scenery ;  but  what  most  delights  me,  is  the  crea 
tive  talent  \\ith  which  the  English  decorate  the 
unostentatious  abodes  of  middle  life.  The  rudest 
habitation,  the  most  unpromising  and  scanty  por 
tion  of  land,  in  the  hands  of  an  Englishman  of 
taste,  becomes  a  little  paradise.  With  a  nicelj 
discriminating  eye,  he  seizes  at  once  upon  its  ca 


92  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

pabilities,  and  pictures  in  his  mind  the  future  laud 
scape.  The  sterile  spot  grows  into  loveliness  un« 
der  liis  hand  and  yet  the  operations  of  art  which 
produce  the  effect  are  scarcely  to  be  perceived, 
The  cherishing  and  training  of  some  trees  ;  the  cau- 
lious  pruning  of  others  ;  the  nice  distribution  of 
dowers  and  plants  of  tender  and  graceful  foliage ; 
the  introduction  of  a  green  slope  of  velvet  turf  j 
liie  partial  opening  to  a  peep  of  blue  distance,  or 
silver  gleam  of  water :  all  these  are  managed  with 
a  delicate  tact,  a  pervading  yet  quiet  assiduity, 
like  the  magic  touchings  with  which  a  painter 
finishes  up  a  favorite  picture. 

The  residence  of  people  of  fortune  and  refine 
ment  in  the  country  has  diffused  a  degree  of  taste 
and  elegance  in  rural  economy  that  descends  to 
the  lowest  class.  The  very  laborer,  with  his 
thatched  cottage  and  narrow  slip  of  ground,  at 
tends  to  their  embellishment.  The  trim  hedge, 
the  grass-plot  before  the  door,  the  little  flower-bed 
bordered  with  snug  box,  the  woodbine  trained  up 
against  the  wall,  and  hanging  its  blossoms  about 
the  lattice,  the  pot  of  flowers  in  the  window,  the 
holly,  providently  planted  about  the  house,  to 
cheat  winter  of  its  dreariness,  and  to  throw  in  8 
semblance  of  green  summer  to  cheer  the  fireside : 
all  these  bespeak  the  influence  of  taste,  flowing 
down  from  high  sources,  and  pervading  the  lowest 
levels  of  the  public  mind.  If  ever  Love,  as  poeta 
Bing,  delights  to  visit  a,  cottage,  it  must  be  the  cot 
tage  of  an  English  peasant. 

The  fondness  for  rural  life  among  the  highei 
classes  of  the  English  has  had  a  great  and  salu- 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND.  93 

tary  effect  upon  the  national  character.  I  do  not 
know  a  finer  race  of  men  than  the  English  gentle 
men.  Instead  of  the  softness  and  effeminacy  which 
characterize  the  men  of  rank  in  most  countries, 
they  exhibit  a  union  of  elegance  and  strength,  a 
robustness  of  frame  and  freshness  of  complexion, 
which  I  am  inclined  to  attribute  to  their  living  so 
much  in  the  open  air,  and  pursuing  so  eagerly  tho 
invigorating  recreations  of  the  country.  These 
hardy  exercises  produce  also  a  healthful  tone  of 
mind  and  spirits,  and  a  manliness  and  simplicity 
of  manners  which  even  the  follies  and  dissipations 
of  the  town  cannot  easily  pervert,  and  can  never 
entirely  destroy.  In  the  country,  too,  the  differ 
ent  orders  of  society  seem  to  approach  more 
freely,  to  be  more  disposed  to  blend  and  operate 
favorably  upon  each  other.  The  distinctions  be 
tween  them  do  not  appear  to  be  so  marked  and 
impassable  as  in  the  cities.  The  manner  in 
which  property  has  been  distributed  into  small 
estates  and  farms  has  established  a  regular  grada 
tion  from  the  noblemen,  through  the  classes  of 
gentry,  small  landed  proprietors,  and  substantial 
farmers,  down  to  the  laboring  peasantry ;  and 
while  it  has  thus  banded  the  extremes  of  society 
together,  has  infused  into  each  intermediate  rack 
a  spirit  of  independence.  This,  it  must  be  con 
fessed,  is  not  so  universally  the  case  at  present  as 
it  was  formerly,  the  larger  estates  having,  in  late 
years  of  distress,  absorbed  the  smaller,  and,  in 
soma  parts  of  the  country,  almost  annihilated  the 
sturdy  race  of  small  farmers.  These,  however,  1 
believe,  are  but  casual  breaks  in  the  general  sys 
tem  I  have  mentioned. 


94  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

In  rural  occupation  there  is  nothing  mean  ancj 
debasing.  It  leads  a  man  forth  among  scenes  of 
natural  grandeur  and  beauty;  it  leaves  him  to  the 
workings  of  his  own  mind,  operated  upon  by  tha 
purest  and  most  elevating  of  external  influenced. 
Such  a  man  may  be  simple  and  rough,  but  he 
cannot  be  vulgar.  The  man  of  refinement,  there 
fore,  finds  nothing  revolting  in  an  intercourse 
with  the  lower  orders  in  rural  life,  as  he  doea 
when  he  casually  mingles  with  the  lower  orders 
of  cities.  He  lays  aside  his  distance  and  reserve, 
and  is  glad  to  waive  the  distinctions  of  rank,  and 
to  enter  into  the  honest,  heartfelt  enjoyments  of 
common  life.  Indeed  the  very  amusements  of  the 
country  bring  men  more  and  more  together ;  and 
the  sound  of  hound  and  horn  blend  all  feelings 
into  harmony.  I  believe  this  is  one  great  reason 
why  the  nobility  and  gentry  are  more  popular 
among  the  inferior  orders  in  England  than  they 
are  in  any  other  country  ;  and  why  the  latter 
have  endured  so  many  excessive  pressures  and 
extremities,  without  repining  more  generally  at 
the  unequal  distribution  of  fortune  and  privilege. 

To  this  mingling  of  cultivated  and  rustic  soci 
ety  may  also  be  attributed  the  rural  feeling  that 
runs  through  British  literature  ;  the  frequent  use 
of  illustrations  from  rural  life ;  those  incompara 
ble  descriptions  of  nature  that  abound  in  the  Brit 
ish  poets,  that  have  continued  down  from  "  The 
Flower  and  the  Leaf"  of  Chaucer,  and  have 
brought  into  our  closets  all  the  freshness  and  iVu- 
grance  of  the  dewy  landscape.  The  pastoral  writ 
ers  of  other  countries  appear  as  if  they  had  paid 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND.  <J5 

nature  an  occasional  visit,  and  become  acquainted 
with  her  general  charms  ;  but  the  British  poets 
have  lived  and  revelled  with  her  —  they  havo 
wooed  her  in  her  most  secret  haunts  —  tney  have 
watched  her  minutest  caprices.  A  spray  could 
not  tremble  in  the  breeze  —  a  leaf  could  not  rus 
tle  to  the  ground  —  a  diamond  drop  could  not  pat 
ter  in  the  stream  —  a  fragrance  could  not  exhale 
from  the  humble  violet,  nor  a  daisy  unfold  its 
crimson  tints  to  the  morning,  but  it  has  been 
noticed  by  these  impassioned  and  delicate  observ 
ers,  and  wrought  up  into  some  beautiful  moral 
ity. 

The  effect  of  this  devotion  of  elegant  minds  to 
rural  occupations  has  been  wonderful  on  the  face 
of  the  country.  A  great  part  of  the  island  is 
rather  level,  and  would  be  monotonous,  were  it 
not  for  the  charms  of  culture  ;  but  it  is  studded 
and  gemmed,  as  it  were,  with  castles  and  palaces, 
and  embroidered  with  parks  and  gardens.  It  does 
not  abound  in  grand  and  sublime  prospects,  but 
rather  in  little  home-scenes  of  rural  repose  and 
sheltered  quiet.  Every  antique  farm-house  and 
rnoss-grown  cottage  is  a  picture  ;  and  as  the  roads 
are  continually  winding,  and  the  view  is  shut  in 
bj  groves  and  hedges,  the  eye  is  delighted  by  a 
continual  succession  of  small  landscapes  of  capti 
vating  loveliness. 

The  great  charm,  however,  of  English  scenery 
is  the  moral  feeling  that  seems  to  pervade  it.  It 
is  associated  in  the  mind  with  ideas  of  on*er,  of 
^uiet,  of  sober,  well-established  principles,  of  hoary 
osa&e  and  reverend  custom.  Everything  aeer^a 


,96  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

to  be  the  growth  of  ages  of  regular  and  peaceful 
existence.  The  old  church  of  remote  architect 
ure,  with  its  low,  massive  portal ;  its  Gothic 
tower;  its  windows  rich  with  tracery  and  painted 
glass,  in  scrupulous  preservation  ;  its  stately  mon 
uments  of  warriors  and  worthies  of  the  olden, 
time,  ancestors  of  the  present  lords  of  the  soil ; 
its  tombstones,  recording  successive  generations 
of  sturdy  yeomanry,  whose  progeny  still  plough 
the  same  fields,  and  kneel  at  the  same  altar ;  — • 
the  parsonage,  a  quaint,  irregular  pile,  partly  anti 
quated,  but  repaired  and  altered  hi  the  tastes  of 
various  ages  and  occupants  ;  —  the  stile  and  foot 
path  leading  from  the  churchyard,  across  pleasant 
fields,  and  along  shady  hedge-rows,  according  to 
an  immemorial  right  of  way;  —  the  neighboring 
village,  with  its  venerable  cottages,  its  public 
green  sheltered  by  trees,  under  which  the  fore 
fathers  of  the  present  race  have  sported ;  —  the 
antique  family  mansion,  standing  apart  in  some 
little  rural  domain,  but  looking  down  with  a  pro 
tecting  air  on  the  surrounding  scene :  all  these 
common  features  of  English  landscape  evince  a 
calm  and  settled  security,  and  hereditary  transmis 
eion  of  home-bred  virtues  and  local  attachments, 
that  speak  deeply  and  touchingly  for  the  moral 
Character  of  the  nation. 

It  is  a  pleasing  sight  of  a  Sunday  morning, 
jrhen  the  bell  is  sending  its  sober  melody  across 
the  quiet  fields,  to  behold  the  peasantry  in  their 
best  finery,  with  ruddy  faces  and  modest  cheerful 
ness,  thronging  tranquilly  along  the  green  lanefl 
to  church  ;  but  it  is  still  more  pleasing  to  soe 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND.  97 

them  in  the  evenings,  gathering  about  their  cottage- 
doors,  and  appearing  to  exult  in  the  humble  com 
forts  and  embellishments  which  their  own  hands 
have  spread  around  them. 

It  is  this  sweet  home-feeling,  this  settled  repose 
of  affection  in  the  domestic  scene,  that  is,  after  all. 
the  parent  of  the  steadiest  virtues  and  purest 
enjoyments ;  and  I  cannot  close  these  desultory 
remarks  better  than  by  quoting  the  words  of  a 
modern  English  poet,  who  has  depicted  it  with 
remarkable  felicity :  — 

Through  each  gradation,  from  the  castled  hall. 
The  city  dome,  the  villa  crown'd  with  shade, 
But  chief  from  modest  mansions  numberless, 
In  town  or  hamlet,  shelt'ring  middle  life, 
Down  to  the  cottaged  vale,  and  straw-roof 'd  shed; 
This  western  isle  hath  long  been  famed  for  scenes 
Where  bliss  domestic  finds  a  dwelling-place; 
Domestic  bliss,  that,  like  a  harmless  dove, 
(Honor  and  sweet  endearment  keeping  guard,) 
Can  centre  in  a  little  quiet  nest 
All  that  desire  would  lly  for  through  the  earth; 
That  can,  the  world  eluding,  be  itself 
A  wprld  enjoy'd;  that  wants  no  witnesses 
But  its  owii  sharers,  and  approving  heaven; 
Th«>t,  like  a  flower  deep  hid  in  rock}'  cleft, 
Sii'iles,  though  't  is  looking  only  at  "the  sky.* 

*  Frrv.  a  poem  on  the  death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte,  by 
the  Prr°Tend  Kann  Kennedy,  A.  JVI. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 


I  never  heard 

Of  any  true  affection,  but 't  was  nipt 
With  *care,  that,  like  the  caterpillar,  eat3 
The  leaves  of  the  spring's  sweetest  book,  the  rose. 

MlDDLETON 

T  is  a  common  practice  with  those  who 
have  outlived  the  susceptibility  of  early 
feeling,  or  have  been  brought  up  in  the 
gay  heartlessness  of  dissipated  life,  to  laugh  at  all 
love-stories,  and  to  treat  the  tales  of  romantic  pas 
sion  as  mere  fictions  of  novelists  and  poets.  My 
observations  on  human  nature  have  induced  mo 
to  think  otherwise.  They  have  convinced  me, 
that,  however  the  surface  of  the  character  may  be 
chilled  and  frozen  by  the  cares  of  the  world,  or 
cultivated  into  mere  smiles  by  the  arts  of  society, 
still  there  are  dormant  fires  lurking  in  the 
depths  of.  the  coldest  bosom,  which,  when  onco 
enkindled,  become  impetuous,  and  are  sometimes 
desolating  in  their  effects.  Indeed,  I  am  a  true 
believer  in  the  blind  deity,  and  go  to  the  full  ex 
tent  of  his  doctrines.  Shall  I  confess  it  ?  —  I 
believe  in  broken  hearts,  and  the  possibility  of 
dying  of  disappointed  love.  I  do  not,  however, 
consider  it  a  malady  often  fatal  to  my  own  sex ; 


THE  BE  OKEN  HEAR  T.  99 

bat  I  firmly  believe  that  it  withers  clown  many  a 
lovely  woman  into  an  early  grave. 

Man  is  the  creature  of  interest  and  ambition. 
His  nature  leads  him  forth  into  the  struggle  and 
bustle  of  the  world.  Love  is  but  the  embellish 
ment  of  his  early  life,  or  a  song  piped  in  the  in« 
lervals  of  the  acts.  He  seeks  for  fame,  for  for 
tune,  for  space  in  the  world's  thought,  and  domin 
ion  over  his  fellow-men.  But  a  woman's  whole 
life  is  a  history  of  the  affections.  The  heart  is 
her  world  :  it  is  there  her  ambition  strives  for 
empire  ;  it  is  there  her  avarice  seeks  for  hidden 
treasures.  She  sends  forth  her  sympathies  on 
adventure ;  she  embarks  her  whole  soul  in  the 
traffic  of  affection  ;  and  if  shipwrecked,  her  case 
is  hopeless  —  for  it  is  a  bankruptcy  of  the  heart. 

To  a  man  the  disappointment  of  love  may  oc 
casion  some  bitter  pangs  :  it  wounds  some  feel 
ings  of  tenderness  —  it  blasts  some  prospects  of 
felicity  ;  but  he  is  an  active  being  —  he  may  dis 
sipate  his  thoughts  in  the  whirl  of  varied  occupa 
tion,  or  may  plunge  into  the  tide  of  pleasure  ;  or, 
if  the  scene  of  disappointment  be  too  full  of  pain 
ful  associations,  he  can  shift  his  abode  at  will,  and 
taking  as  it  were  the  wings  of  the  morning,  can 
"  fly  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  and  be 
at  rest." 

But  woman's  is  comparatively  a  fixed,  a  seclud« 
fcd,  and  meditative  life.  She  is  more  the  com 
panion  of  her  own  thoughts  and  feelings  ;  and  if 
they  are  turned  to  ministers  of  sorrow,  where 
Bhull  she  look  for  consolation  ?  Her  lot  is  to  be 
wooed  and  wo** ;  and  if  unhappy  in  her  love,  he* 


100  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

heart  is  like  some  fortress  that  has  been  cap 
tured,  and  sacked,  and  abandoned,  and  left  deso 
late. 

How  many  bright  eyes  gro'w  dim  —  how  many 
soft  cheeks  grow  pale  —  how  many  lovely  forms 
fade  away  into  the,  tomb,  and  none  can  tell  the 
cause  that  blighted  their  loveliness  !  As  the  dove 
will  clasp  its  wings  to  its  side,  and  cover  and  con 
ceal  the  arrow  that  is  preying  on  its  vitals,  so  it 
is  the  nature  of  woman  to  hide  from  the  world 
the  pangs  of  wounded  affection.  The  love  of  a 
delicate  female  is  always  shy  and  silent.  Even 
when  fortunate,  she  scarcely  breathes  it  to  herself 
but  when  otherwise,  she  buries  it  in  the  recesses 
of  her  bosom,  and  there  lets  it  cower  and  brood 
among  the  ruins  of  her  peace.  With  her  the 
desire  of  the  heart  has  failed.  The  great  charm 
of  existence  is  at  an  end.  She  neglects  all  tho 
cheerful  exercises  which  gladden  the  spirits, 
quicken  the  pulses,  and  send  the  tide  of  IH<j  in 
healthful  currents  through  the  veins.  Her  rest 
is  broken  —  the  sweet  refreshment  of  sleep  is 
poisoned  by  melancholy  dreams  —  "  dry  sorrow 
drinks  her  blood,"  until  her  enfeebled  frame  sinks 
under  the  slightest  external  injury.  Look  foi 
her,  after  a  little  while,  and  you  find  friendship 
weeping  over  her  untimely  grave,  and  wondering 
that  one,  who  but  lately  glowed  with  all  the  radi 
ance  of  health  and  beauty,  should  so  speedily  bo 
brought  down  to  "  darkness  and  the  worm."  You 
will  be  told  of  some  wintry  chill,  some  casual  in 
disposition,  that  laid  her  low;  —  but  no  one  knows 
of  the  mental  malady  which  previously  sapped 


THE  BR  OKJC  ?7  E£A E  T. '  i'Ol' 

her  strength,  and  made  her  so  easy  a  prey  tc  the 
speller. 

SI ic  is  like  some  tender  tree,  the  pride  and 
beauty  of  the  grove  ;  graceful  in  its  form,  blight 
in  its  foliage,  but  with  the  worm  preying  at  .is 
heart.  We  find  it  suddenly  withering,  when  ii 
should  be  most  fresh  and  luxuriant.  AVe  see  it 
drooping  its  branches  to  the  earth,  and  shedding 
leaf  by  leaf,  until,  wasted  and  perished  away,  u 
falls  even  in  the  stillness  of  the  foiest;  and  as 
we  muse  over  the  beautiful  ruin,  we  strive  in 
vain  to  recollect  the  blast  or  thunderbolt  that 
could  have  smitten  it  with  decay. 

I  have  seen  many  instances  of  women  running 
to  waste  and  self-neglect,  and  disappearing  grad 
ually  from  the  earth,  almost  as  if  they  had  been 
exhaled  to  heaven ;  and  have  repeatedly  fancied 
that  I  could  trace  their  death  through  the  various 
declensions  of  consumption,  cold,  debility,  languor, 
melancholy,  until  I  reached  the  first  symptom  of 
disappointed  love.  But  an  instance  of  the  kind 
was  lately  told  to  me  ;  the  circumstances  are  well 
known  in  the  country  where  they  happened,  and 
I  shall  but  give  them  in  the  manner  in  which 
they  were  related. 

Every  one  must  recollect  the  tragical  story  of 
young  E ,  the  Irish  patriot ;  it  was  too  touch 
ing  to  be  soon  forgotten.  During  the  troubles  in 
Ireland,  he  was  tried,  condemned,  and  executed, 
on  a  charge  of  treason.  His  fate  made  a  deep  im 
pression  on  public  sympathy.  He  was  so  young 
—  so  intelligent  —  so  generous  —  so  brave  —  so 
fverything  that  we  are  apt  to  like  in  a  young 


202  .  T&Z<  3KF.  TCH-B  0  OK. 


man.  His  conduct  under  trial,  too,  was  so  lofty 
and  intrepid.  The  noble  indignation  with  which 
he  repelled  the  charge  of  treason  against  his  coun 
try  —  the  eloquent  vindication  of  his  name  —  and 
his  pathetic  appeal  to  posterity,  in  the  hopeless 
hour  of  condemnation  —  all  these  entered  deeply 
into  every  generous  bosom,  and  even  his  enemies 
lamented  the  stern  policy  that  dictated  his  execu 
tion. 

But  there  was  one  heart,  whose  anguish  it 
would  be  impossible  to  describe.  In  happier  days 
and  fairer  fortunes,  he  had  won  the  affections  of 
a  beautiful  and  interesting  girl,  the  daughter  of  a 
late  celebrated  Irish  barrister.  She  loved  him 
"with  the  disinterested  fervor  of  a  woman's  first 
and  early  love.  When  every  worldly  maxim 
arrayed  itself  against  him  ;  when  blasted  in  for 
tune,  and  disgrace  and  danger  darkened  around 
his  name,  she  loved  him  the  more  ardently  for  his 
very  sufferings.  If,  then,  his  fate  could  awaken 
the  sympathy  even  of  his  foes,  what  must  have 
been  the  agony  of  her,  whose  whole  soul  was 
occupied  by  his  image  !  Let  those  tell  who  have 
had  the  portals  of  the  tomb  suddenly  closed  be 
tween  them  and  the  being  they  most  loved  on 
earth  —  who  have  sat  at  its  threshold,  as  one 
shut  out  in  a  cold  and  lonely  world,  whence  al] 
that  was  most  lovely  and  loving  had  departed. 

But  then  the  horrors  of  such  a  grave  !  so 
frightful,  so  dishonored  !  there  was  nothing  for 
memory  to  dwell  on  that  could  soothe  the  pang  of 
separation  —  none  of  those  tender  though  melan 
choly  circumstances,  which  endear  the  parting 


THE  BR  OKEN  RE  A  RT.  103 

scene  -nothing  to  molt  sorrow  into  tnose  blesseo1 
tears,  sent  like  the  dews  of  heaven,  to  revive  the 
heart  in  the  parting  hour  of  anguish. 

To  render  her  widowed  situation  more  deso 
late,  she  had  incurred  her  father's  displeasure  by 
her  unfortunate  attachment,  and  was  an  exile 
from  the  paternal  roof.  But  could  the  sympathy 
and  kind  oifices  of  friends  have  readied  a  spirit 
eo  shocked  and  driven  in  by  horror,  she  would 
have  experienced  no  want  of  consolation,  for  the 
Irish  are  a  people  of  quick  and  generous  sensi 
bilities.  The  most  delicate  and  cherishing  atten 
tions  were  paid  her  by  families  of  wealth  and 
distinction.  She  was  led  into  society,  and  they 
tried  by  all  kinds  of  occupation  and  amusement 
to  dissipate  her  grief,  and  wean  her  from  the 
tragical  story  of  her  loves.  But  it  was  all  in 
vain.  There  are  some  strokes  of  calamity  which 
scathe  and  scorch  the  soul  —  which  penetrate  to 
the  vital  seat  of  happiness  —  and  blast  it,  never 
again  to  put  forth  bud  or  blossom.  She  never 
objected  to  frequent  the  haunts  of  pleasure,  but 
was  as  much  alone  there  as  in  the  depths  of  soli 
tude  ;  walking  about  in  a  sad  reverie,  apparently 
unconscious  of  "the  world  around  her.  She  car 
ried  with  her  an  inward  woe  that  mocked  at  all 
the  blandishments  of  friendship,  and  "  heeded 
not  the  song  of  the  charmer,  charm  he  never  so 
wisely." 

The  person  who  told  me  her  story  had  seen 

her  at  a  masquerade.    There  can  be  no  exhibition 

of  far-gone  wretchedness  more  striking  and  pain- 

1  than  to  meet  it  in  such  a  scene.     To  Jind  if 


104  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

wandering  like  a  spectre,  lonely  and  jojdess,  where 
all  around  is  gay  —  to  see  it  dressed  out  in  the 
trappings  of  mirth,  and  looking  so  wan  and  woe 
begone,  as  if  it  had  tried  in  vain  to  cheat  the  poor 
heart  into  a  momentary  forget  fulness  of  sorrow 
After  strolling  through  the  splendid  rooms  and 
giddy  crowd  with  an  air  of  utter  abstraction,  she 
eat  herself  down  on  the  steps  of  an  orchestra, 
and,  looking  about  for  some  time  with  a  vacant 
air,  that  showed  her  insensibility  to  the  garish 
scene,  she  began,  with  the  capriciousness  of  a 
sickly  heart,  to  warble  a  little  plaintive  air.  She 
had  an  exquisite  voice;  but  on  this  occasion  it 
was  so  simple,  so  touching,  it  breathed  forth  such 
a  soul  of  wretchedness,  that  she  drew  a  crowd 
mute  and  silent  around  her,  and  melted  every  one 
into  tears. 

The  story  of  one  so  true  and  tender  could  not 
but  excite  great  interest  in  a  country  remarkable 
for  enthusiasm.  It  completely  won  the  heart  of  a 
brave  officer,  who  paid  his  addresses  to  her,  and 
thought  that  one  so  true  to  the  dead  could  not 
but  prove  'affectionate  to  the  living.  She  declined 
his  attentions,  for  her  thoughts  were  irrevocably 
engrossed  by  the  memory  of  her  former  lover. 
He,  however,  persisted  in  his  suit.  lie  solicited 
not  her  tenderness,  but  her  esteem.  He  was  as 
sisted  by  her  conviction  of  his  worth,  and  hei 
sense  of  her  own  destitute  and  dependent  situa 
tion,  for  she  was  existing  on  the  kindness  of 
friends.  In  a  word,  he  at  length  succeeded  is 
gaining  her  hand,  though  with  the  solemn  assur 
J  ance  that  her  heart  was  unalterably  another's. 


THE  BR  OKEN  HE  A  U  T.  105 

He  took  her  with  him  to  Sicily,  hoping  that  a 
change  of  scene  might  wear  out  the  remembrance 
of  early  woes.  She  wa°  an  amiuble  and  cxem« 
plary  wife,  and  made  an  effort  to  be  a  happy  one ; 
but  nothing  could  cure  the  silent  and  devouring 
melancholy  that  had  entered  into  her  very  soul 
She  wasted  away  in  a  slow,  but  hopeless  decline, 
and  at  length  sunk  into  the  grave,  the  victim  of 
a  broken  heart. 

It  was  on  her  that  Moore,  the  distinguished 
Irish  poet,  composed  the  following  lines  :  — 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps, 

Ami  lovers  around  her  are  sighing: 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  and  weeps, 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 

She  sings  the  wild  songs  of  her  dear  native  plains, 

Kvery  note  which  he  loved  awaking  — 
Ah!  little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains, 

llow  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  breaking ! 

He  had  lived  for  his  love  —  for  his  country  he  died, 
They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him  — 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  he  dried, 
Kor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him  1 

Oh!  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbeams  rest, 

When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow: 
They  '11  shine  o'er'her  sleep,  like  a  smile  from  the  west, 

"From  her  own  bved  island  of  sorrow  I 


THE   ART    OF   BOOK-MAKING. 


"  If  that  sevcro  doom  of  Synesius  be  tnie,  —  «  It  is  a  great  a 
effence  to  stejil  dead  men's  labor,  than  their  clothes,'  wh«ii 
ihall  become  of  most  writers?  " 

BURTON'S  ANATOMY  OF  MELANCHOLY. 

HAVE  often  wondered  at  the  extreme 
fecundity  of  the  press,  and  how  it  comes 
to  pass  that  so  many  heads,  on  which 
nature  seemed  to  have  inflicted  the  curse  of  bar 
renness,  should  teem  with  voluminous  produc 
tions.  As  a  man  travels  on,  however,  in  the 
journey  of  life,  his  objects  of  wonder  daily  dimin 
ish,  and  he  is  continually  finding  out  some  very 
simple  cause  for  some  great  matter  of  marvel. 
Thus  have  I  chanced,  in  my  peregrinations  about 
this  great  metropolis,  to  blunder  upon  a  scene 
which  unfolded  to  me  some  of  the  mysteries  of 
the  lxx)k-making  craft,  and  at  once  put  an  end  tc 
my  astonishment. 

I  was  one  summer's  day  loitering  through  the 
groat  saloons  of  the  British  Museum,  with  that 
tistlessncss  with  which  one  is  apt  to  saunter  about 
R  museum  in  warm  weather ;  sometimes  lolling 
orer  the  glass  cases  of  minerals,  sometimes  study 
ing  the  hieroglyphics  on  an  Egyptian  mummy, 
and  sometimes  trying,  with  nearly  equal  success, 
to  comprehend  the  allegorical  paintings  on  the 
103 


THE  ART  OF  BO OK-MAKIX G.  107 

lofty  ceilings.  Whilst  I  was  gazing  about  in  thia 
idle  tt~ay,  my  attention  was  attracted  to  a  distant 
door,  at  the  end  of  a  suite  of  apartments.  It  waa 
closed,  but  every  now  and  then  it  would  open, 
and  some  strange-favored  being,  generally  clothed 
in  black,  would  steal  forth,  and  glide  through  the 
rooms,  without  noticing  any  of  the  surrounding 
objects.  There  was  an  air  of  mystery  about  this 
that  piqued  my  languid  curiosity,  and  I  determin 
ed  to  attempt  the  passage  of  that  strait,  and  to 
explore  the  unknown  regions  beyond.  The  door 
yielded  to  my  hand,  with  that  facility  with  which 
the  portals  of  enchanted  castles  yield  to  the  ad 
venturous  knigl it-errant.  I  found  myself  in  a 
spacious  chamber,  surrounded  with  great  cases  of 
venerable  books.  Above  the  cases,  and  just  un 
der  the  cornice,  were  arranged  a  great  number  of 
black-looking  portraits  of  ancient  authors.  About 
the  room  were  placed  long  tables,  with  stands  for 
reading  and  writing,  at  which  sat  many  pale,  stu 
dious  personages,  poring  intently  over  dusty  vol 
umes,  rummaging  among  mouldy  manuscripts, 
and  taking  copious  notes  of  their  contents.  A 
hushed  stillness  reigned  through  this  mysterious 
apartment,  excepting  that  you  might  hear  the 
racing  of  pens  over  sheets  of  paper,  or  occasion 
ally  the  deep  sigh  of  one  of  these  sages,  as  he 
shifted  his  position  to  turn  over  the  page  of  an  old 
folio ;  doubtless  arising  from  that  hollowness  and 
flatulency  incident  to  learned  research. 

Now  and  then  one  of  these  personages  would 
write  something  on  a  small  slip  of  paper,  and 
ring  a,  bell,  whereupon  a  familiar  would  appea? 


108  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

take  (lie  paper  in  profound  silence,  glide  out  of 
the  room,  ami  return  shortly  loaded  with  ponder 
ous  tomes,  upon  which  the  other  would  fall  toott 
and  nail  with  famished  voracity.  I  had  no  lon 
ger  a  doubt  that  I  had  happened  upon  a  body  of 
magi,  deeply  engaged  in  the  study  of  occult  sci 
ences.  The  scene  reminded  ine  of  an  old  Ara 
bian  tale,  of  a  philosopher  shut  up  in  an  enchanted 
library,  in  the. bosom  of  a  mountain,  which  open 
ed  only  once  a  year;  where  he  ma-ie  the  spirits 
of  the  place  bring  him  books  of  all  kinds  of'  dark 
knowledge,  so  that  at  the  end  of  the  year,  when 
the  magic  portal  once  more  swung  open  on  its 
hinges,  he  issued  forth  so  versed  in  forbidden  lore, 
as  to  be  able  to  soar  above  the  heads  of  the  mul 
titude,  and  to  control  the  powers  of  nature. 

My  curiosity  being  now  fully  aroused,  I  whis 
pered  to  one  of  the  familiars,  as  he  was  about  to 
leave  the  room,  and  begged  an  interpretation  of 
the  strange  scene  before  me.  A  few  words  were 
sufficient  for  the  purpose.  I  found  that  thesa 
mysterious  personages,  whom  I  had  mistaken  for 
magi,  were  principally  authors,  and  in  the  very 
act  of  manufacturing  books.  I  was,  in  fact,  in 
/  the  reading-room  of  the  great  British  Library  — 
an  immense  collection  of  volumes  of  all  ages  and 
languages,  many  of  which  are  now  forgotten,  and 
most  of  which  are  seldom  read  :  one  of  these 
sequestered  pools  of  obsolete  literature,  to  which 
modern  authors  repair,  and  draw  buckets  full  of 
classic  lore,  or  "  pure  English,  undefiled,"  where- 
mth  to  swell  their  own  scanty  rills  of  thought 
Being  now  in  possession  of  the  secret,  I  ?al 


THE  ART  OF  BO  OK- MAKING.  109 

do\vn  in  a  corner,  and  watched  the  process  of  this 
book-manufactory.  I  noticed  one  lean,  biiious- 
looking  wight,  who  sought  none  but  the  most 
wonn-eaten  volumes,  printed  in  black-letter.  lie 
was  evidently  constructing  some  work  of  pro 
found  erudition,  that  would  be  purchased  by 
every  man  who  wished  to  be  thought  learned, 
placed  upon  a  conspicuous  shelf  of  his  library,  or 
laid  open  upon  his  table  ;  but  never  read.  I  ob 
served  him,  now  and  then,  draw  a  large  fragment 
of  biscuit  out  of  his  pocket,  and  gnaw  ;  Avhether 
it  was  his  dinner,  or  whether  he  was  endeavor 
ing  to  keep  off  that  exhaustion  of  the  stomach  pro 
duced  by  much  pondering  over  dry  works,  I  Ieav6 
to  harder  students  than  myself  to  determine. 

There  was  one  dapper  little  gentleman  in 
bright-colored  clothes,  with  a  chirping,  gossiping 
expression  of  countenance,  who  had  all  the  ap 
pearance  of  an  author  on  good  terms  with  his 
bookseller.  After  considering  him  attentively,  I 
recognized  in  him  a  diligent  getter-up  of  miscel 
laneous  works,  which  bustled  off  well  with  the 
trade.  I  was  curious  to  see  how  he  manufact 
ured  his  wares.  He  made  more  stir  and  show  of 
business  than  any  of  the  others;  dipping  into  va 
rious  books,  fluttering  over  the  leaves  of  manu 
scripts,  taking  a  morsel  out  of  one,  a  morsel  out 
sf  another,  "  line  upon  line,  precept  upon  precept, 
here  a  little  and  there  a  little."  The  contents  of 
his  book  seemed  to  be  as  heterogeneous  as  those 
of  the  witches'  caldron  in  Macbeth.  It  was  here 
a  finger  and  there  a  thumb,  toe  of  frog  and  blind- 
worm's  Sv',ig,  with  his  own  gossip  poured  in  like 


110  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

"  baboon's  blood,"  to  make  the  medley  ft  slab  and 
good/' 

After  all,  thought  I,  may  not  this  pilfering  di§« 
position  be  implanted  in  authors  for  wise  ptir« 
poses  ;  may  it  not  be  the  way  in  which  Provi 
dence  has  taken  care  that  the  seeds  of  kr.owledgo 
and  wisdom  shall  be  preserved  from  age  to  age, 
in  spite  of  the  inevitable  decay  of  the  works  ia 
which  they  were  first  produced  ?  We  see  that 
nature  has  wisely,  though  whimsically,  provided 
for  the  conveyance  of  seeds  from  clime  to  clime, 
in  the  maws  of  certain  birds  ;  so  that  animals, 
which,  in  themselves,  are  little  better  than  car 
rion,  and  apparently  the  lawless  plunderers  of  the 
orchard  and  the  cornfield,  are,  in  fact,  nature's 
carriers  to  disperse  and  perpetuate  her  blessings. 
In  like  manner,  the  beauties  and  fine  thought:*  of 
ancient  and  obsolete  authors  are  caught  up  by 
these  flights  of  predatory  writers,  and  cast  ferth 
again  to  flourish  and  bear  fruit  in  a  remote  and 
distant  tract  of  time.  Many  of  their  works,  also, 
undergo  a  kind  of  metempsychosis,  and  spring  up 
under  new  forms.  AYhat  was  formerly  a  ponder 
ous  history,  revives  in  the  shape  of  a  romance  — 
an  old  legend  changes  into  a  modern  play  —  and 
a  sober  philosophical  treatise  furnishes  the  body 
for  a  whole  series  of  bouncing  and  sparkling  es 
says.  Tims  it  is  in  the  clearing  of  our  American 
woodlands  :  where  we  burn  down  a  forest  of 
stately  pines,  a  progeny  of  dwarf  oaks  start  up 
in  their  place  ;  and  we  never  see  the  prostrate 
trunk  of  a  tree  mouldering  into  soil,  but  it  gives 
birtli  to  a  whole  tribe  of  fungi. 


THE  ART  OF  BO  OK-  MA  KING.  1 1  \ 

Let  us  not,  then,  lament  over  the  decay  and 
oblivion  into  which  ancient  writers  descend  ;  they 
do  but  submit  to  the  great  law  of  nature,  which 
declares  that  all  sublunary  shapes  of  matter  shall 
be  limited  in  their  duration,  but  which  decrees, 
also,  that  their  elements  shall  never  perish.  Gen 
eration  after  generation,  both  in  animal  and  vege 
table  life,  passes  away,  but  the  vital  principle  is 
transmitted  to  posterity,  and  the  species  continue 
to  flourish.  Thus,  also,  do  authors  beget  authors, 
and  having  produced  a  numerous  progeny,  in  a 
good  old  age  they  sleep  with  their  fathers,  that  is 
to  say,  with  the  authors  who  preceded  them  — 
and  from  whom  they  had  stolen. 

Whilst    I    was    induljnnjj    in    these    rambling 

O        C5  O 

fancies,  I  had  leaned  my  head  against  a  pile  of 
reverend  folios.  Whether  it  was  owing  to  the 
soporific  emanations  from  these  works  ;  or  to  the 
profound  quiet  of  the  room ;  or  to  the  lassitude 
arising  from  much  wandering  ;  or  to  an  unlucky 
habit  of  napping  at  improper  times  and  places, 
with  which  I  am  grievously  afllicted,  so  it  was, 
that  I  fell  into  a  doze.  Still,  however,  my  imag 
ination  continued  busy,  and  indeed  the  same  scene 
remained  before  my  mind's  eye,  only  a  little 
changed  in  some  of  the  details.  I  dreamt  that 
the  chamber  was  still  decorated  with  the  portraits 
of  ancient  authors,  but  that  the  number  wras  in 
creased.  The  long  tables  had  disappeared,  and, 
in  place  of  the  sage  magi,  I  beheld  a  ragged, 
threadbare  throng,  such  as  may  be  seen  plying 
about  the  great  repository  of  cast-off  clothos,  Mon« 
mouth  Street.  Whenever  they  seized  upon  a  book, 


112  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

by  one  of  those  incongruities  common  to  dreams, 
Bethought  it  turned  into  a  garment  of  foreign  DI 
antique  fashion,  with  which  they  proceeded  to 
equip  themselves.  I  noticed,  however,  that  no 
one  pretended  to  clothe  himself  from  any  particu 
lar  suit,  but  took  a  sleeve  from  one,  a  cape  from 
another,  a  skirt  from  a  third,  thus  decking  him 
self  out  piecemeal,  while  some  of  his  original  rags 
would  peep  out  from  among  his  borrowed  finery. 
There  was  a  portly,  rosy, .  well-fed  parson, 
whom  I  observed  ogling  several  mouldy  polemical 
writers  through  an  eye-glass.  He  soon  contrived 
to  slip  on  the  voluminous  mantle  of  one  of  the  old 
fathers,  and,  having  purloined  the  gray  beard  of 
another,  endeavored  to  look  exceedingly  wise; 
but  the  smirking  commonplace  of  his  countenance 
set  at  naught  all  the  trappings  of  wisdom.  Ono 
sickly-looking  gentleman  was  busied  embroidering 
a  very  flimsy  garment  with  gold  thread  drawn  out 
of  several  old  court-dresses  of  the  reign  of  Queen 
Elizabeth.  Another  had  trimmed  himself  mag 
nificently  from  an  illuminated  manuscript,  had 
stuck  a  nosegay  in  his  bosom,  culled  from  "  The 
Paradise  of  Daintie  Devices,"  and  having  put  Sir 
Philip  Sidney's  hat  on  one  side  of  his  head, 
strutted  off  with  an  exquisite  air  of  vulgar  ele 
gance.  A  third,  who  was  but  of  puny  dimen 
sions,  had  bolstered  himself  out  bravely  with  tho 
Spoils  from  several  obscure  tracts  of  philosophy, 
so  that  he  had  a  very  imposing  front ;  but  he  was 
lamentably  tattered  in  rear,  and  I  perceived  that 
he  had  patched  his  small-clothes  with  scraps  of 
parchment  from  a  Latin  author. 


THE  ART  OF  BOOK-MARINO.  113 

There  were  some  well-dressed  gentlemen,  it  ia 
true,  who  only  helped  themselves  to  a  gem  or  so, 
which  sparkled  among  their  own  ornaments,  with 
out  eclipsing  them.  Some,  too,  seemed  to  contem 
plate  the  costumes  of  the  old  writers,  merely  to  im 
bibe  their  principles  of  taste,  and  to  catch  their  air 
and  spirit ;  but  I  grieve  to  say,  that  too  many  were 
apt  to  array  themselves  from  top  to  toe  in  tho 
patchwork  manner  I  have  mentioned.  I  shall  not 
omit  to  speak  of  one  genius,  in  drab  breeches  and 
gaiters,  and  an  Arcadian  hat,  who  had  a  violent 
propensity  to  the  pastoral,  but  whose  rural  wan 
derings  had  been  confined  to  the  classic  haunts  of 
Primrose  Hill,  and  the  solitudes  of  the  Regent's 
Park.  He  had  decked  himself  in  wreaths  and 
ribbons  from  all  the  old  pastoral  poets,  and,  hang 
ing  his  head  on  one  side,  went  about  with  a  fan 
tastical,  lackadaisical  air,  "  babbling  about  green 
fields."  But  the  personage  that  most  struck  my 
attention  was  a  pragmatical  old  gentleman,  in  cler 
ical  robes,  with  a  remarkably  large  and  square, 
but  bald  head.  He  entered  the  room  wheezing 
and  puffing,  elbowed  his  way  through  the  throng, 
with  a  look  of  sturdy  self-confidence,  and  having 
laid  hands  upon  a  thick  Greek  quarto,  clapped  it 
upon  his  head,  and  swept  majestically  away  in  a 
formidable  frizzled  wig. 

In  the  height  of  this  literary  masquerade,  a  cry 
Buddenly  resounded  from  every  side,  of  "  Thieves ! 
thieves  ! "  I  looked,  and  lo  !  the  portraits  about 
the  wall  became  animated !  The  old  authors 
thrust  out,  first  a  head,  then  a  shoulder,  from  the 
canvas,  looked  down  curiously,  for  an  instant,  upon 
8 


114  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  motley  throng,  and  then  descended  with  fxirj 
in  their  eyes,  to  claim  their  rifled  property.  The 
scene  of  scampering  and  hubbub  that  ensued  baf 
fles  all  description.  The  unhappy  culprits  eii 
deavored  in  vain  to  escape  with  their  plunder 
On  one  side  might  be  seen  half  a  dozen  old  monks 
stripping  a  modern  professor  ;  on  another,  then 
was  sad  devastation  carried  into  the  ranks  of  mod 
ern  dramatic  writers.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
side  by  side,  raged  round  the  field  like  Castor  and 
Pollux,  and  sturdy  Ben  Jonson  enacted  more 
wonders  than  when  a  volunteer  with  the  army  io 
Flanders.  As  to  the  dapper 'little  compiler  of 
farragos,  mentioned  some  time  since,  he  had  ar 
rayed  himself  in  as  many  patches  mid  colors  aa 
Harlequin,  and  there  was  as  fierce  a  contention  of 
claimants  about  him  as  about  the  dead  body  of 
Patroclus.  I  was  grieved  to  see  many  meo,  to 
whom  I  had  been  accustomed  to  look  up  with  awe 
and  reverence,  fain  to  steal  off  with  scarce  a  rag 
to  cover  their  nakedness.  Just  then  my  eye  was 
caught  by  the  pragmatical  old  gentleman  in  tho 
Greek  grizzled  wig,  who  was  scrambling  away 
in  sore  affright  with  half  a  score  of  authors  in 
full  cry  after  him  !  They  were  close  upon  his 
haunches :  in  a  twinkling  off  went  his  wig ;  at 
every  turn  some  strip  of  raiment  was  peeled  away ; 
until  in  a  few  moments,  from  his  domineering 
pomp,  he  shrunk  into  a  little,  pursy,  "  chopped  bald 
shot,"  and  made  his  exit  with  only  a  few  tags  And 
rags  fluttering  at  his  back. 

There  was  something  so  ludicrous  in  the  catas 
trophe  of  tli  is  learned  Theban,  that  I  burst  into  &sv 


THE  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING.  115 

immoderate  fit  of  laughter,  which  broke  the  whole 
illusion.  The  tumult  and  the  scuffle  \vcre  at  an 
end.  The  chamber  resumed  its  usual  appear 
ance.  The  old  authors  shrunk  back  into  their 
picture-frames,  and  hung  in  shadowy  solemnity 
along  the  walls.  In  short,  I  found  myself  widtj 
awake  in  my  corner,  with  the  whole  assemblage 
of  book-worms  gazing  at  me  with  astonishment. 
Nothing  of  the  dream  had  been  real  but  my  burst 
of  laughter,  a  sound  never  before  heard  in  that 
grave  sanctuary,  and  so  abhorrent  to  the  ears  of 
wisdom  as  to  electrify  the  fraternity. 

The  librarian  now  stepped  up  to  me,  and  de 
manded  whether  I  had  a  card  of  admission.  At 
first  I  did  not  comprehend  him,  but  J  soon  found 
that  the  library  was  a  kind  of  literary  "preserve," 
subject  to  game-laws,  and  that  no  one  must  pre 
sume  to  hunt  there  witliont  special  license  and 
permission.  In  a  word,  I  stood  convicted  of 
being  an  arrant  poacher,  and  was  glad  to  make  a 
precipitate  re  treat  j  lest  I  should  have  a  whole 
pack  of  authors  letv  loose  upon  me. 


A    ROYAL   POET. 


Though  your  body  be  confined, 

And  soft  love  a  prisoner  bound, 
Yet  the  beauty  of  your  mind 
Neither  check  nor  chain  hath  found. 
Look  out  nobly,  then,  and  dare 
Even  the  fetters  that  you  wear.  — FLETCHBB. 

N  a  soft  sunny  morning  in  the  genial 
month  of  May,  I  made  an  excursion  to 
Windsor  Castle.  It  is  a  place  full  of 
atoried  and  poetical  associations.  The  very  ex 
ternal  aspect  of  the  proud  old  pile  is  enough  to 
aispire  high  thought.  It  rears  its  irregular  walls 
and  massive  towers,  like  a  mural  crown,  round 
the  brow  of  a  lofty  ridge,  waves  its  royal  banner 
in  the  clouds,  and  looks  down,  with  a  lordly  air, 
apon  the  surrounding  world. 

On  this  morning  the  weather  was  of  that  TO- 
luptuous  venial  kind,  which  calls  forth  all  the  la 
tent  romance  of  a  man's  temperament,  filling  his 
mind  with  music,  and  disposing  him  to  quote  po 
etry  and  dream  of  beauty.  In  wandering  through 
the  magnificent  saloons  and  long  echoing  galleries 
of  the  castle,  I  passed  with  indifference  by  whole 
rows  of  portraits  of  warriors  and  statesmen,  that 
lingered  in  the  jchamber  where  hang  the  like 
nesses  of  the  beauties  which  graced  the  gay  eourt 
of  Charles  the  Second  ;  and  as  I  gazed  upon  them, 
116 


A    ROYAL  POET.  ll? 

depicted  with  amorous,  half-dishevelled  tresses, 
and  I  lie  sleepy  eye  of  love,  I  blessed  the  pencil  of 
Sir  Peter  Lely,  which  hud  thus  enabled  me  to 
bask  in  the  reflected  rays  of  beauty.  In  travers 
ing  also  the  ''large  green  courts,"  with  sunshine 
beaming  on  the  gray  walls,  and  glancing  along 
the  velvet  turf,  my  mind  was  engrossed  with  tho 
image  of  the  tender,  the  gallant,  but  hapless  Sur- 
rev.  and  his  account  of  his  letterings  about  them 
in  his  stripling  days,  when  enamored  of  the  Lady 
Geraldine  — 

"  With  eyes  cast  up  unto  the  maiden's  tower, 
With  easie  sighs,  such  as  men  draw  iu  love." 

Iii  this  mood  of  mere  poetical  susceptibility,  I 
visited  the  ancient  Keep  of  the  Castle,  where 
James  the  First  of  Scotland,  the  pride  and  theme 
of  Scottish  poets  and  historians,  was  for  many 
years  of  his  youth  detained  a  prisoner  of  state. 
It  is  a  large  gray  tower,  that  has  stood  the  brunt 
of  ages,  and  is  still  in  good  preservation.  It 
stands  on  a  rnound,  which  elevates  it  above  the 
other  parts  of  the  castle,  and  a  great  flight  of 
steps  leads  to  the  interior.  In  the  armory,  a 
Gothic  hall,  furnished  with  weapons  of  various 
kinds  and  ages,  I  was  shown  a  coat  of  armor 
hanging  against  the  Avail,  which  had  once  belong 
ed  to  James,  llen^e  I  was  conducted  up  a  stair- 
case  to  a  suite  of  apartments  of  faded  magi  lift* 
cence,  hung  with  storied  tapestry,  which  formed 
his  prison,  and  the  scene  of  that  passionate  and 
fanciful  amour,  which  has  woven  into  the  \yeb  o/' 
liis  story  the  magical  hues  of  poetry  and  fiction 


xi8  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

The  Tvhole  history  of  this  amiable  but  unfor 
tunate  prince  is  highly  romantic.  At  the  tender 
age  of  eleven  he  was  sent  from  home  by  his  father, 
Robert  III.,  and  destined  for  the  French  court, 
to  be  reared  under  the  eye  of  the  French  mon 
arch,  secure  from  the  treachery  and  danger  that 
surrounded  the  royal  house  of  Scotland.  It  was 
his  mishap  in  the  course  of  his  voyage  to  fall 
into  the  hands  of  the  English,  and  he  was  detain 
ed  prisoner  by  Henry  IV.,  notwithstanding  that 
a  truce  existed  between  the  two  countries. 

The  intelligence  of  his  capture,  coming  in  the 
train  of  many  sorrows  and  disasters,  proved  fatal 
to  his  unhappy  father.  "  The  news,"  we  are  told, 
"  was  brought  to  him  while  at  supper,  and  did  so 
overwhelm  him  with  grief,  that  he  was  almost 
ready  to  give  up  the  ghost  into  the  hands  of  the 
servant  that  attended  him.  But  being  carried  to 
his  bed-chamber,  he  abstained  from  all  food,  and 
hi  three  days  died  of  hunger  and  grief  at  Roth- 
esay."  * 

James  was  detained  in  captivity  above  eighteen 
years ;  but  though  deprived  of  personal  liberty, 
lie  was  treated  with  the  respect  due  to  his  rank. 
Care  was  taken  to  instruct  him  in  all  the  brandies 
of  useful  knowledge  cultivated  at  that  period, 
and  to  give  him  those  mental  and  personal  ac 
complishments  deemed  proper  for  a  prince.  Per- 
Imps,  in  this  respect,  his  imprisonment  was  an 
advantage,  as  it  enabled  him  to  apply  himself  (ho 
more  exclusively  to  his  improvement,  and  quietly 
to  imbibe  that  rich  fund  of  knowledge,  and  to 
*  Buchanan. 


A  ROYAL  POET.  119 

cherish  those  elegant  tastes  which  have  given 
such  a  lustre  to  his  memory.  The  picture  drawn 
of  him  in  early  life,  by  the  Scottish  historians,  ia 
Iiighly  captivating,  and  seems  rather  the  descrip 
tion  of  a  hero  of  romance  than  of  a  character  in 
real  history.  He  was  well  learnt,  we  are  told, 
"to  fight  with  the  sword,  to  joust,  to  tourney,  to 
wrestle,  to  sing  and  dance  ;  he  was  an  expert 
rnediciner,  right  crafty  in  playing  both  of  lute 
and  harp,  and  sundry  other  instruments  of  music, 
and  was  expert  in  grammar,  oratory,  and  po 
etry."  * 

With  this  combination  of  manly  and  delicate 
accomplishments,  fitting  him  to  shine  both  in  ac 
tive  and  elegant  life,  and  calculated  to  give  him 
an  intense  relish  for  joyous* existence,  it  must  have 
been  a  severe  trial,  in  an  age  of  bustle  and  chiv 
alry,  to  pass  the  springtime  of  his  years  in  monoto 
nous  captivity.  It  was  the  good  fortune  of  James, 
however,  to  be  gifted  with  a  powerful  poetic  fan 
cy,  and  to  be  visited  in  his  prison  by  the  choicest 
inspirations  of  the  muse.  Some  minds  corrode 
and  grow  inactive  under  the  loss  of  personal  lib 
erty  ;  others  grow  morbid  and  irritable  ;  but  it  ia 
the  nature  of  the  poet  to  become  tender  and  im 
aginative  in  the  loneliness  of  confinement.  Ho 
banquets  upon  the  honey  of  his  own  thoughts,  andj 
like  the  captive  bird,  pours  forth  his  soul  in  melody, 

Have  you  not  seen  the  nightingale, 

A  pilgrim  coop'd  into  a  cage, 
How  doth  she  chant  her  wonted  tale, 

In  that  her  lonely  hermitage ! 

•  Ballenden's  Translation  of  Hector  Boyce. 


120  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Even  there  her  charming  melody  doth  prove 
That  all  her  boughs  are  trees,  her  cage  a  grove.* 

Indeed,  it  is  the  divine  attribute  of  the  irnagi 
nation,  that  it  is  irrepressible,  unconfmable  ;  thai 
when  the  real  world  is  shut  out,  it  can  create  a 
world  for  itself,  and  with  a  necromantic  power 
can  conjure  up  glorious  shapes  and  forma,  and 
brilliant  visions,  to  make  solitude  populous,  and 
irradiate  the  gloom  of  the  dungeon.  Such  was  the 
world  of  pomp  and  pageant  that  lived  round 
Tasso  in  his  dismal  cell  at  Ferrara,  when  he  con 
ceived  the  splendid  scenes  of  his  Jerusalem  ;  and 
we  may  consider  the  "  King's  Quair,"  composed 
by  James  during  his  captivity  at  Windsor,  as  an- 
otlier  of  those  beautiful  breakings-forth  of  the  souJ 
from  the  restraint  and  gloom  of  the  prison-house. 

The  subject  of  the  poem  is  his  love  for  the 
lady  Jane  Beaufort,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Som 
erset,  and  a  princess  of  the  blood  royal  of  Eng 
land,  of  whom  he  became  enamored  in  the  course 
of  his  captivity.  What  gives  it  a  peculiar  value, 
is  that  it  may  be  considered  a  transcript  of  the 
royal  bard's  true  feelings,  and  the  story  of  hig 
real  loves  and  fortunes.  It  is  not  often  that  sov 
ereigns  write  poetry,  or  that  poets  deal  in  fact. 
It  is  gratifying  to  the  pride  of  a  common  man,  to 
find  a  monarch  thus  suing,  as  it  were,  for  admis 
sion  into  his  closet,  and  seeking  to  win  his  favor 
by  administering  to  his  pleasures.  It  is  a  proof 
of  the  honest  equality  of  intellectual  competition, 
which  strips  off  all  the  trappings  of  factitious  dig 
nity,  brings  the  candidate  down  to  a  level  witfr 
*  Roger  L' Estrange. 


A  ROYAL  POET.  121 

his  fellow-men,  and  obliges  him  to  depend  on  hia 
own  native  powers  for  distinction.  Jt  is  curious, 
too,  to  get  at  the  history  of  a  monarch's  heart, 
and  to  find  the  simple  affections  of  human  nature 
throbbing  under  the  ermine.  But  James  had 
learnt  to  be  a  poet  before  he  was  a  king  :  he  was 
Bchoolcd  in  adversity,  and  reared  in  the  company 
of  his  own  thoughts.  Monarchs  have  seldom 
time  to  parley  with  their  hearts,  or  to  meditate 
their  minds  into  poetry ;  and  had  James  been 
brought  up  amidst  the  adulation  and  gayety  of  a 
court,  we  should  never,  in  all  probability,  havo 
had  such  a  poem  as  the  Quair. 

I  have  been  particularly  interested  by  thoso 
parts  of  the  poem  which  breathe  his  immediate 
thoughts  concerning  his  situation,  or  which  are 
connected  with  the  apartment  in  the  tower.  They 
have  thus  a  personal  and  local  charm,  and  aro 
given  with  such  circumstantial  truth  as  to  make 
tlio  reader  present  with  the  captive  in  his  prison, 
and  the  companion  of  his  meditations. 

Such  is  the  account  which  he  gives  of  his  wea 
riness  of  spirit,  and  of  the  incident  which  first 
euggested  the  idea  of  writing  the  poem.  It  was 
the  still  midwatch  of  a  clear  moonlight  night ;  the 
stars,  he  says,  were  twinkling  as  fire  in  the  high 
vault  of  heaven  :  and  "  Cynthia  rinsing  her  golden 
locks  in  Aquarius."  He  lay  in  bed  wakeful  and 
restless,  and  took  a  book  to  beguile  the  tedious 
hours.  The  book  he  chose  was  Boetius's  Con 
solations  ofjPhilosophy,  a  work  popular  among  the 
ivriters  of  that  day,  and  which  had  been  trans 
lated  by  his  great  prototype,  Chaucer.  From  the 


122  THE  SKETCH-BOOR. 

high  eulogiura  in  which  he  indulges,  it  is  evident 
this  was  one  of  his  favorite  volumes  while  in 
prison ;  and  indeed  it  is  an  admirable  text-book 
for  meditation  under  adversity.  It  is  the  legacy 
of  a  noble  and  enduring  spirit,  purified  by  sorrow 
and  suffering,  bequeathing  to  its  successors  ID 
calamity  the  maxims  of  sweet  morality,  and  the 
trains  of  eloquent  but  simple  reasoning,  by  which 
it  was  enabled  to  bear  up  against  the  various  ills 
of  life.  It  is  a  talisman,  which  the  unfortunate 
<nay  treasure  up  in  his  bosom,  or,  like  the  good 
King  James,  lay  upon  his  nightly  pillow. 

After  closing  the  volume,  he  turns  its  contents 
over  in  his  mind,  and  gradually  Mis  into  a  fit  of 
rousing  on  the  fickleness  of  fortune,  the  vicissitudes 
of  his  own  life,  and  the  evils  that  had  overtaken 
him  even  in  his  tender  youth.  Suddenly  he  hears 
the  bell  ringing  to  matins ;  but  its  sound,  chiming 
in  with  his  melancholy  fancies,  seems  to  him  like 
a  voice  exhorting  him  to  write  his  story.  In  the 
spirit  of  poetic  errantry  he  determines  to  comply 
with  this  intimation :  he  therefore  takes  pen  in 
hand,  makes  with  it  a  sign  of  the  cross  to  implore 
a  benediction,  and  sallies  forth  into  the  fairy  land 
of  poetry.  There  is  something  extremely  fanci 
ful  in  all  this,  and  it  is  interesting  as  furnishing  a 
striking  and  beautiful  instance  of  the  simple  man 
ner  in  which  whole  trains  of  poetical  though!  are 
sometimes  awakened,  and  literary  enterprises  sug 
gested  to  the  mind. 

In  the  course  of  his  poem  he  morp,  than  onco 
bewails  the  peculiar  hardness  of  his  fate  ;  thus 
doomed  to  lonely  and  inactive  life,  and  shut  up 


A   ROYAL  POET.  123 

from  the  freedom  and  pleasure  of  the  world,  in 
which  the  meanest  animal  indulges  unrestrained, 
There  is  a  sweetness,  however,  in  his  very  com* 
plaints ;  they  are  the  lamentations  of  an  amiahle 
mid  social  spirit  at  being  denied  the  indulgence  of 
its  kind  and  generous  propensities ;  there  is  notli 
ing  in  them  harsh  nor  exaggerated ;  they  flow 
with  a  natural  and  touching  pathos,  and  are  per 
haps  rendered  more  touching  by  their  simple  brev 
ity.  They  contrast  finely  with  those  elaborate 
and  iterated  repinings,  which  we  sometimes  meet 
with  in  poetry;  —  the  effusions  of  morbid  minds 
sickening  under  miseries  of  their  own  creating, 
and  venting  their  bitterness  upon  an  unoffending 
world.  James  speaks  of  his  privations  with  acute 
sensibility,  but  having  mentioned  them  passes  on, 
as  if  his  manly  mind  disdained  to  brood  over  un 
avoidable  calamities.  When  such  a  spirit  breaks 
forth  into  complaint,  however  brief,  we  are  aware 
how  great  must  be  the  suffering  that,  extorts  the 
murmur.  We  sympathize  with  James,  a  roman 
tic,  active,  and  accomplished  prince,  cut  off  in  tho 
lustihood  of  youth  from  all  the  enterprise,  the  no 
ble  uses,  and  vigorous  delights  of  life,  as  we  do 
vith  Milton,  alive  to  all  the  beauties  of  nature 
nud  glories  of  art,  when  he  breathes  forth  brief, 
but  deep -toned  lamentations  over  his  perpetual 
blindness. 

Had  not  James  evinced  a  deficiency  of  poetic 
artifice,  we  might  almost  have  suspected  that 
these  lowerings  of  gloomy  reflection  were  meant 
as  preparative  to  the  brightest  scene  of  his  story ; 
and  to  contrast  with  that  refulgence  of  light  and 


124  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

loveliness,  that  exhilarating  accompanimei-t  of  bird 
and  song,  and  foliage  and  flower,  and  all  vhu  revel 
of  tlie  year,  with  which  he  ushers  in  the  lady  of 
his  heart.  It  is  this  scene,  in  particular,  which 
throws  all  the  magic  of  romance  about  the  eld 
Castle  Keep.  He  had  risen,  he  says,  at  daybreak, 
according  to  custom,  to  escape  from  the  dreary- 
meditations  of  a  sleepless  pillow.  u  Bewailing 
in  his  chamber  thus  alone,"  despairing  of  all  joy 
and  remedy,  u  fbrtired  of  thought  and  wobegone," 
he  had  wandered  to  the  window,  to  indulge  the 
captive's  miserable  solace  of  gazing  wistfully  upon 
the  world  from  which  he  is  excluded.  The  win 
dow  looked  forth  upon  a  small  garden  \vhich  lay 
at  the  foot  of  the  tower.  It  was  a  quiet,  shel 
tered  spot,  adorned  with  arbors  and  green  alleys, 
and  protected  from  the  passing  gaze  by  tree*1  and 
hawthorn  hedges. 

Now  was  there  made,  fast  bv  the  tower's  wall, 
A  garde ii  faire,  and  in  the  corners  set 

An  arbour  preen  with  wandis  long  and  small 
JJailed  about,  and  so  with  leaves  beset 

Was  all  the  place  and  hawthorn  hedges  knet, 
That  lyf  *  was  none,  walkyng  there  forbye 
That  might  within  scarce  any  wight  espyo. 

So  thick  the  branches  and  the  leves  grene, 
Beshaded  all  the  alleys  that  there  were, 

And  midst  of  every  arbour  mi^ht  be  sene 
The  sharpe,  grene,  swete  juniper, 

Growing  so  fair,  with  branches  Imre  and  there, 
That  as  it  seeded  to  a  lyf  without. 
The  boughs  did  spread  the  arbour  all  about 

And  on  the  small  grene  twistis  f  set 

The  lytel  swete  nightingales,  and  sung 

*  Lyf,  Person.  \  Ta-istis,  small  boughs  or  twigs. 

NOTE.  —  The  language  of  the  quotations  is  geueially  mod 
•raized. 


A  ROYAL  POET.  Y2& 

So  loud  and  clear,  the  hymnis  consecrate 

Of  Invis  use,  now  soft,  now  loud  among, 
That  all  the  garden  and  the  wallis  rung 
Eight  of  their  song 

It  was  the  month  of  May,  when  everything 
ivas  in  bloom  ;  and  he  interprets  the  song  of  the 
nightingale  into  the  language  of  his  enamored 
fetling  :  — 

"Worship,  all  ye  that  lovers  be,  this  Ma? 

For  of  your  bliss  the  kalends  are  begun, 
And  sing  with  us.  away,  winter,  away, 

Come,  summer,  come,  the  sweet  season  and  sun. 

As  he  gazes  on  the  scene,  and  listens  to  the 
notes  of  the  birds,  he  gradually  relapses  into  one 
of  those  tender  and  undefinable  reveries  which 
fill  the  youthful  bosom  in  this  delicious  season. 
He  wonders  what  this  love  may  be,  of  which  he 
has  so  often  read,  and  which  thus  seems  breathed 
tbith  in  the  quickening  breath  of  May,  and  melt 
ing  all  nature  into  ecstasy  and  song.  If  it  really 
be  so  great  a  felicity,  and  if  it  be  a  boon  thus  gen 
erally  dispensed  to  the  most  insignificant  beings, 
why  is  he  alone  cut  off  from  its  enjoyments  ? 

Oft  -would  I  think,  0  Lord,  what  may  this  be, 

That  love  is  of  such  noble  myglit  and  kynde? 

Loving  his  folke,  and  such  prosperitee 
Is  it  of  him,  as  AVC  in  books  do  lind: 
May  he  oure  hertes  setten  *  and  unbynd: 

Hath  he  upon  our  hertes  such  maistryeV  j 

Or  is  oil  this  but  fey  nit  fantasye? 

For  gitT  he  be  of  so  grete  excellence, 

That  he  of  every  wight  hath  care  and  charge, 

What  have  I  gilt  t  to  him,  or  done  ollense, 
That  I  am  thral'd,  and  birdis  go  at  large? 

*  Setten,  incline.        f  GMj  what  mi  my  have  I  dons,  etc 


126  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

In  the  midst  of  his  musing,  as  he  casts  his  ey* 
downward,  lie  beholds  "  the  fairest  and  the  fresh 
est  young  fioure  "  that  ever  he  had  seen.  It  ia 
the  lovely  Lady  Jane,  walking  in  the  garden  to 
enjoy  the  beauty  of  that  "  fresh  May  morrowe." 
Breaking  thus  suddenly  upon  his  sight,  in  the 
moment  of  loneliness  and  excited  susceptibility, 
she  at  once  captivates  the  fancy  of  the  romantic 
prince,  and  becomes  the  object  of  his  wandering 
wishes,  the  sovereign  of  his  ideal  world. 

There  is,  in  this  charming  scene,  an  evident  re 
semblance  to  the  early  part  of  Chaucer's  Knight's 
Tale ;  where  Palamon  and  Arcite  fall  in  love 
with  Emilia,  whom  they  see  walking  in  the  gar 
den  of  their  prison.  Perhaps  the  similarity  of 
the  actual  fact  to  the  incident  which  he  had  read 
in  Chaucer  may  have  induced  James  to  dwell  01. 
it  in  his  poem.  His  description  of  the  Lad} 
Jane  is  given  in  the  picturesque  and  minute  mail 
ner  of  his  master;  and  being  doubtless  taker, 
from  the  life,  is  a  perfect  portrait  of  a  beauty  of 
that  day.  He  dwells,  with  the  fondness  of  a  lover, 
on  every  article  of  her  apparel,  from  the  net  of 
pearl,  splendent  with  emeralds  and  sapphires,  that 
confined  her  golden  hair,  even  to  the  "  goodly 
chaine  of  small  orfeverye "  *  about  her  neck, 
whereby  there  hung  a  ruby  in  shape  of  a  heart, 
that  seemed,  he  says,  like  aspaikof  fire  burning 
upon  her  white  bosom.  Her  dress  of  white  tis 
sue  was  looped  up  to  enable  her  to  walk  with 
snore  freedom.  She  was  accompanied  by  two 
female  attendants,  and  about  her  sported  a  little 
hound  decorated  with  bells ;  probably  the  small 
*  Wrought  gold. 


A  ROYAL  POET.  127 

Italian  hound  of  exquisite  symmetry,  which  was 
a  parlor  favorite  and  pet  among  the  fashionable 
dames  of  ancient  times.  James  closes  his  de 
scription  by  a  burst  of  general  eulogium : 

In  her  was  youth,  beauty,  with  humble  port, 
Bounty,  riclicsse,  ana  womanly  feature; 

God  better  knows  tlien  my  pen  can  report, 

Wisdom,  largesse,*  estate, t  and  cunning  J  sure, 

In  every  point  so  guided  her  measure, 

In  word,  in  deed,  in  shape,  in  countenance, 
That  nature  might  no  more  her  child  advance. 

The  departure  of  the  Lady  Jane  from  the  garden 
puts  an  end  to  this  transient  riot  of  the  heart. 
With  her  departs  the  amorous  illusion  that  had 
shed  a  temporary  charm  over  the  scene  of  his 
captivity,  and  he  relapses  into  loneliness,  now 
rendered  tenfold  more  intolerable  by  this  passing 
beam  of  unattainable  beauty.  Through  the  long 
and  weary  day  ho  repines  at  his  unhappy  lot, 
and  when  evening  approaches,  and  Phoebus,  as 
he  beautifully  expresses  it,  had  "bade  farewell 
to  every  leaf  and  flower,"  he  still  lingers  at  the 
window,  and,  laying  his  head  upon  the  cold  stone, 
gives  vent  to  a  mingled  flow  of  love  and  sorrow, 
until,  gradually  lulled  by  the  mute  melancholy 
of  the  twilight  hour,  he  lapses,  "half  sleeping, 
half  swoon,"  into  a  vision,  which  occupies  the  re 
mainder  of  the  poem,  and  in  which  is  allegorically 
Chadowud  out  the  history  of  his  passion. 

When  he  wakes  from  his  trance,  he  rises  from 
his  stony  pillow,  and,  pacing  his  apartment,  lull 
of  dreary  reflections,  questions  his  spirit,  whither  it 

*  Largesse,  bounty.  f  Estate,  dignity. 

t   Cunning,  discretion. 


lUvS  THE  SKETCH-BOOK 

has  been  wandering;  whether,  indeed,  all  that  bag 
passed  before  iiis  dreaming  fancy  has  been  con- 
j'»red  up  by  preceding  circumstances ;  or  whether 
it  is  a  vision,  intended  to  comfort  and  assure  him 
in  his  despondency,  If  the  latter,  he  prays  that 
some  token  may  be  sent  to  confirm  the  promise 
of  happier  days,  given  him  in  his  slumbers. 
Suddenly,  a  turtle-dove,  of  the  purest  whiteness, 
comes  Hying  in  at  the  window,  and  alights  upon 
Uis  hand,  bearing  in  her  bill  a  branch  of  red 
gillyflower,  on  the  leaves  of  which  is  written,  in 
letters  of  gold,  the  following  sentence :  — 

Awake  !  awake !  I  bring,  lover,  I  bring 

The  newis  glad  that  blissful  is,  and  sure 
Of  thy  comfort;  now  laugh,  and  play,  and  sing, 
,    '      ior  in  the  heaven  decretit  is  thy  cure. 

He  receives  the  branch  with  mingled  hops 
And  dread  ;  reads  it  with  rapture  :  and  this,  he 
says,  was  the  first  token  of  his  succeeding  happi 
ness.  Whether  this  is  a  mere  poetic  fiction,  or 
whether  the  Lady  Jane  did  actually  send  him  a 
token  of  her  favor  in  this  romantic  way,  remains 
to  be  determined  according  to  the  faith  or  fancy  of 
the  reader.  He  concludes  his  poem  by  intimating 
that  the  promise  conveyed  in  the  vision  and  by 
the  flower  is  fulfilled,  ty  his  being  restored  to 
liberty,  and  made  happy  in  the  possession  of  the 
sovereign  of  his  heart. 

Such  is  the  poetical  account  given  by  James 
of  hLj>  love  adventures  in  Windsor  Castle.  How 
much  of  it  is  absolute  fact,  and  how  much  the 
embellishment  of  fancy,  it  is  fruitless  to  conject 
ure:  let  us  not,  however,  reject  every  romantic 


A  ROYAL  POET.  129 

incident  as  incompatible  with  real  life ;  but  let 
us  sometimes  take  a  poet  at  his  word.  I  have 
noticed  merely  those  parts  of  the  poem  immedi 
ately  connected  with  the  tower,  and  have  "passed 
over  a  large  part,  written  in  the  allegorical  vein, 
so  much  cultivated  at  that  day.  The  language, 
of  course,  is  quaint  and  antiquated,  so  that  tho 
beauty  of  many  of  its  golden  phrases  will  scarcely 
be  perceived  at  the  present  day ;  but  it  is  impos 
sible  not  to  be  charmed  with  the  genuine  sen 
timent,  the  delightful  artlessness  and  urbanity, 
which  prevail  throughout  it.  The  descriptions 
of  nature,  too,  with  which  it  is  embellished,  are 
given  with  a  truth,  a  cHscrimination,  and  a  fresh 
ness,  worthy  of  the  most  cultivated  periods  of 
the  art. 

As  an  amatory  poem,  it  is  edifying,  in  these 
days  of  coarser  thinking,  to  notice  the  nature,  re 
finement,  and  exquisite  delicacy  which  pervade 
it ;  banishing  every  gross  thought  or  immodest  ex 
pression,  and  presenting  female  loveliness,  clothed 
in  all  its  chivalrous  attributes  of  almost  super 
natural  purity  and  grace. 

James  flourished  nearly  about  the  time  of 
Chaucer  and  Gower,  and  was  evidently  an  admirer 
and  studier  of  their  writings.  Indeed,  in  one  of 
his  stanzas  he  acknowledges  them  as  his  masters ; 
and,  hi  some  parts  of  his  poem,  we  find  traces  of 
similarity  to  their  productions,  more  especially  to 
those  of  Chaucer.  There  are  always,  however, 
general  features  of  resemblance  in  the  works  of 
contemporary  authors,  which  are  not  so  much 
borrowed  from  each  other  as  from  the  times 
8 


130  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Writers,  like  bees,  toll  their  sweets  in  the  whig 
world ;  they  incorporate  with  their  own  cuitcep« 
tions  the  anecdotes  and  thoughts  current  in  soci 
ety  ;  arid  thus  each  generation  has  some  features 
in  common,  characteristic  of  the  age  in  which  it 
lived. 

James  belongs  to  one  of  the  most  brilliant  eras 
f  our  literary  history,  and  establishes  the  claims 
of  his  country  to  a  participation  in  its  primitive 
honors.  Whilst  a  small  cluster  of  English  writers 
are  constantly  cited  as  the  fathers  of  our  verse, 
the  name  of  their  great  Scottish  compeer  is  apt 
to  be  passed  over  *ji  silence  ;  but  he  is  evidently 
worthy  of  being  enrolled  in  that  little  constella 
tion  of  remote  but  never-failing  luminaries,  who 
shine  in  the  highest  firmament  of  literature,  aifd 
who,  like  morning  stars,  sang  together  at  the 
bright  dawning  of  British  poesy. 

Such  of  my  readers  as  may  not  be  familiar 
with  Scottish  history  (though  the  manner  in  which 
it  has  of  late  been  woven  with  captivating  fiction 
has  made  it  a  universal  study),  may  be  curious 
to  learn  something  of  the  subsequent  history  of 
James,  and  the  fortunes  of  his  love.  His  pas 
sion  for  the  Lady  Jane,  as  it  was  the  solace  of  his 
captivity,  so  it  facilitated  his  release,  it  being  im 
agined  by  the  court  that  a  connection  with  tho 
blood  royal  of  England  would  attach  him  to  iU 
own  interests.  He  was  ultimately  restored  to 
his  liberty  and  crown,  having  previously  espoused 
the  Lady  Jane,  who  accompanied  him  to  Scot 
land,  and  made  him  a  most  tender  and  devoted 
wife 


A   ROYAL  FOET.  131 

I 

He  found  his  kingdom  in  great  confusion,  the 
feudal  chieftains  having  taken  advantage  of  the 
troubles  and  irregularities  of  a  long  interregnum 
to  strengthen  themselves  in  their  possessions,  and 
place  themselves  above  the  power  of  the  laws, 
James  sought  to  found  the  basis  of  his  power  in 
the  affections  of  his  people.  He  attached  tho 
lower  orders  to  him  by  the  reformation  of  abuses, 
fhe  temperate  and  equable  administration  of  jus 
tice,  the  encouragement  of  the  arts  of  peace,  and 
the  promotion  of  everything  thnt  could  diffuse 
comfort,  competency,*  and  innocent  enjoyment 
through  the  humblest  ranks  of  society.  lie 
mingled  occasionally  among  the  common  people 
in  disguise  ;  visited  their  firesides  ;  entered  into 
their  cares,  their  pursuits,  and  their  amusements  ; 
informed  himself  of  the  mechanical  arts,  and  how 
they  coidd  best  be  patronized  and  improved ;  and 
was  thus  an  all-pervading  spirit,  watching  with  a 
benevolent  eye  over  the  meanest  of  his  subjects. 
Having  in  this  generous  manner  made  himself 
strong  in  the  hearts  of  the  common  people,  he 
turned  himself  to  curb  the  power  of  the  factious 
nobility  ;  to  strip  them  of  those  dangerous  immu 
nities  which  they  had  usurped  ;  to  punish  such  as 
had  been  guilty  of  flagrant  offences  ;  and  to  bring 
the  whole  into  proper  obedience  to  the  crown. 
For  some  time  they  bore  this  with  outward  sub 
mission,  but  with  secret  impatience  and  brooding 
resentment.  A  conspiracy  was  at  length  formed 
Bgainst  his  life,  at  the  head  of  which  w<\s  his  own 
uncle,  Robert  Stewart,  Earl  of  At  hoi,  who,  being 
loo  old  himself  for  the  perpetration  of  the  deed 


132  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

of  blood,  instigated  his  grandson  Sir  Robert  Ste 
wart,  together  with  Sir  Robert  Graham,  and  others 
of  less  note,  to  commit  the  deed.  They  broke  intc 
his  bed-chamber  at  the  Dominican  Convent  near 
Perth,  where  he  was  residing,  and  barbarously  mur* 
dbrcd  him  by  oft-repeated  wounds.  His  faithful 
queen,  rushing  to  throw  her  lender  body  between 
him  and  the  sword,  was  twice  wounded  in  the  in 
effectual  attempt  to  shield  him  from  the  assassin ; 
ftnd  it  was  not  until  she  had  been  forcibly  torp 
from  his  person,  that  the  murder  was  accom 
plished. 

It  was  the  recollection  of  this  romantic  tale  of 
former  times,  and  of  the  golden  little  poem  which 
had  its  birthplace  in  this  Tower,  that  made  me 
visit  the  old  pile  with  more  than  common  inter 
est.  The  suit  of  armor  hanging  up  in  the  hall, 
richly  gilt  and  embellished,  as  if  to  figure  in  the 
tourney,  brought  the  image  of  the  gallant  and 
romantic  prince  vividly  before  my  imagination. 
I  paced  the  deserted  chambers  where  he  had  com 
posed  his  poem ;  I  leaned  upon  the  window,  and 
endeavored  to  persuade  myself  it  was  the  very 
one  where  he  had  been  visited  by  his  vision ;  I 
looked  out  upon  the  spot  where  he  had  first  seen 
the  Lady  Jane.  It  was  the  same  genial  and  joy 
ous  month  ;  the  birds  were  again  vying  with  each 
other  in  strains  of  liquid  melody  ;  everything  was 
bursting  into  vegetation,  and  budding  forth  tho 
tender  promise  of  the  year.  Time,  which  de 
lights  to  obliterate  the  sterner  memorials  of 
human  pride,  seems  to  have  passed  lightly  over 
this  little  scene  of  poetry  and  love,  and  to  hava 


A   ROYAL  POET.  135 

withheld  his  desolating  hand.  Several  centuries 
have  gone  by,  yet  the  garden  still  nourishes  at  the 
foot  of  the  Tower.  It  occupies  what  was  once 
the  moat  of  the  Keep  ;  and  though  some  parts 
have  been  separated  by  dividing  wails,  yet  others 
have  still  their  arbors  and  shaded  walks,  as  in  the 
days  of  James,  and  the  whole  is  sheltered,  bloom- 
iiig,  and  retired.  There  is  a  charm  about  a  spot 
that  has  been  printed  by  the  footsteps  of  departed 
beauty,  and  consecrated  by  the  inspirations  of 
the  poet,  which  is  heightened,  rather  than  im 
paired,  by  the  lapse  of  ages.  It  is,  indeed,  the 
gift  of  poetry  to  hallow  every  place  in  which  it 
moves  ;  to  breathe  around  nature  an  odor  more 
exquisite  than  the  perfume  of  the  rose,  and  to 
shed  over  it  a  tint  more  magical  than  the  blush 
of  morning. 

Others  may  dwell  on  the  illustrious  deeds  of 
James  as  a  warrior  and  a  legislator  ;  but  I  have 
delighted  to  view  him  merely  as  the  companion 
of  his  fellow-men,  the  benefactor  of  the  human 
heart,  stooping  from  his  high  estate  to  sow  the 
pweet  flowers  of  poetry  and  song  in  the  paths  of 
common  life.  He  was  the  first  to  cultivate  the 
vigorous  and  hardy  plant  of  Scottish  genius,  which 
has  since  become  so  prolific  of  the  most  whole 
some  and  highly  flavored  fruit.  He  carried  with 
him  into  the  sterner  regions  of  the  north  all  the 
fertilizing  arts  of  southern  refinement,  lie  tlid 
everything  in  his  power  to  win  his  countrymen  to 
the  gay,  the  elegant,  and  gentle  arts,  which  soften 
and  reline  the  character  of  a  people,  and  wreathe 
a  grace  round  the  loftiness  of  a  proud  and  war- 


134  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

like  spirit.  He  wrote  many  poems,  which,  on* 
fortunately  for  the  fulness  of  his  fame,  are  no^f 
lost  to  the  world ;  one,  which  is  still  preserved^ 
called  "  Christ's  Kirk  of  the  Green,"  shows  how 
diligently  he  had  made  himself  acquainted  with 
the  rustic  sports  and  pastimes,  which  constitute 
such  a  source  of  kind  and  social  feeling  among 
the  Scottish  peasantry  ;  and  with  what  simple  and 
happy  humor  he  could  enter  into  their  enjoyments. 
He  contributed  greatly  to  improve  the  national 
music ;  and  traces  of  his  tender  sentiment  and 
elegant  taste  are  said  to  exist  in  those  witching 
airs,  still  piped  among  the  wild  mountains  and 
lonely  glens  of  Scotland.  He  has  thus  connected 
his  image  with  whatever  is  most  gracious  and 
endearing  in  the  national  character;  he  has  em 
balmed  his  memory  in  song,  and  floated  his  name 
to  after-ages  in  the  rich  streams  of  Scottish  mel 
ody.  The  recollection  of  these  things  was  kindling 
at  my  heart  as  I  paced  the  silent  scene  of  his 
imprisonment.  I  have  visited  Vaucluse  with  as 
much  enthusiasm  as  a  pilgrim  would  visit  the 
shrine  at  Loretto  ;  but  I  have  never  felt  more 
poetical  devotion  than  when  contemplating  the 
old  Tower  and  the  little  garden  at  Windsor,  awl 
musing  over  the  romantic  loves  of  the  Lady  Jane 
End  the  Hoyal  Poet  of  Scotland. 


THE    COUNTRY   CHUECH 


A  gentleman ! 

What,  o'  the  Woolp;ickV  or  the  sugar-chosf  ? 
Or  lists  of  velvet?  which  is  't,  pound,  or  ,/krd 
You  vend  your  gentry  by? 

BEGGAK'S  Bean 

HERE  are  few  places  moi<j  favorable  to 
tne  stucty  °f  character  than  an  English 
country  church.  I  was  once  passing  a 
few  weeks  at  the  seat  of  a  friend,  who  resided  ID 
the  vicinity  of  one,  the  appearance  of  which  par 
ticularly  struck  my  fancy.  It  was  one  of  those 
rich  morsels  of  quaint  antiquity  which  give  such 
a  peculiar  charm  to  English  landscape.  It  stood 
in  the  midst  of  a  country  filled  with  ancient  fam 
ilies,  and  contained,  within  its  cold  and  silent 
aisles,  the  congregated  dust  of  many  noble  gener 
ations.  The  interior  walls  were  incrusted  with 
monuments  of  every  age  and  style.  The  light 
streamed  through  windows  dimmed  with  armorial 
bearings,  richly  emblazoned  in  stained  glass.  In 
various  parts  of  the  church  were  tombs  of  knighta 
and  high-born  dames,  of  gorgeous  workmanship, 
with  their  effigies  in  colored  marble.  On  every 
side  the  eye  was  struck  with  some  instance  of  as» 
piling  mortality ;  some  haughty  memorial  which 
human  pride  had  erected  over  its  kindred  dust,  in 
this  temple  of  the  most  humble  of  all  religions. 

135 


136  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

The  congregation  was  composed  of  the  neigh 
boring  people  of  rank,  who  sat  in  pews,  sumptu 
ously  lined  and  cushioned,  furnished  with  richly 
gilded  prayer-books,  and  decorated  with  their 
arms  upon  the  pew-doors;  of  the  villagers  and 
peasantry,  who  filled  the  back  seats,  and  a  small 
gallery  beside  the  organ ;  and  of  the  poor  of  the 
parish,  who  were  ranged  on  benches  in  the  aisles, 

The  service  was  performed  by  a  snuffling,  well- 
fed  vicar,  who  had  a  snug  dwelling  near  tho 
church.  He  was  a  privileged  guest  at  all  the 
tables  of  the  neighborhood,  and  had  been  the 
keenest  fox-hunter  in  the  country ;  until  age  and 
good  living  had  disabled  him  from  doing  any 
thing  more  than  ride  to  see  the  hounds  throw 
off,  and  make  one  at  the  hunting-dinner. 

Under  the  ministry  of  such  a  pastor,  I  found  i! 
impossible  to  get  into  the  train  of  thought  suit 
able  to  the  time  and  place  :  so,  having,  like  many 
other  feeble  Christians,  compromised  with  my 
conscience,  by  laying  the  sin  of  my  own  delin 
quency  at  another  person's  threshold,  I  occupied 
myself  by  making  observations  on  my  neighbors. 

I  was  as  yet  a  stranger  in  England,  and  curi 
ous  to  notice  the  manners  of  its  fashionable 
classes.  I  found,  as  usual,  that  there  was  the 
least  pretension  where  there  was  the  most  ac« 
knowledged  title  to  respect.  I  was  particularly 
struck,  for  instance,  with  the  family  of  a  noble 
man  of  high  rank,  consisting  of  several  sons  and 
daughters.  Nothing  could  be  more  simple  and 
unassuming  than  their  appearance.  They  gener 
ally  came  to  church  in  the  plainest  equipage,  and 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH.  137 

often  on  foot.  The  young  ladies  would  stop  and 
converse  in  the  kindest  manner  with  the  peas- 
nntry,  caress  the  children,  and  listen  to  the 
stories  of  the  humble  cottagers.  Their  counte 
nances  were  open  and  beautifully  fair,  with  an 
expression  of  high  refinement,  but,  at  the  same 
time,  a  frank  cheerfulness,  and  an  engaging  affa 
bility.  Their  brothers  were  tall,  and  elegantly 
formed.  They  were  dressed  fashionably,  but 
simply ;  with  strict  neatness  and  propriety,  but 
without  any  mannerism  or  foppishness.  Their 
whole  demeanor  was  easy  and  natural,  with  that 
lofty  grace  aL  1  noble  frankness  which  bespeak 
freeborn  souls  that  have  never  been  checked  in 
their  growth  by  feelings  of  inferiority,  >,  There 
is  a  healthful  hardiness  about  real  dignity,  that 
never  dreads  contact  and  communion  with  others, 
however  humbleA  It  is  only  spurious  pride  that 
is  morbid  and  sensitive,  and  shrinks  from  every 
touch.  I  was  pleased  to  see  the  manner  in 
which  they  would  converse  with  the  peasantry 
about  those  rural  concerns  and  field -sports  in 
which  the  gentlemen  of  this  country  so  much  de 
light.  In  these  conversations  there  was  neithei 
haughtiness  on  the  one  part,  nor  servility  on  the 
other  ;  and  you  were  only  reminded  of  the  differ 
ence  of  rank  by  the  habitual  respect  of  the  peas 
ant. 

In  contrast  to  these  was  the  family  of  a  wealthy 
citizen,  who  had  amassed  a  vast  fortune  ;  and, 
having  purchased  the  estate  and  mansion  of  q 
ruined  nobleman  in  the  neighborhood,  was  en« 
deavoring  to  assume  all  the  style  and  dignity  of 


138  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

on  hereditary  lord  of  the  soil.  The  family  al 
ways  came  to  church  en  prince.  They  were 
rolled  majestically  along  in  a  carriage  emblazon* 
ed  with  arms.  The  crest  glittered  in  silver  radi 
ance  from  every  part  of  the  harness  where  a 
crest  could  possibly  be  placed.  A  fat  coachman, 
in  a  three-cornered  hat,  richly  laced,  and  a  flaxen 
wig,  curling  close  round  his  rosy  face,  was  seated 
on  the  box,  with  a  sleek  Danish  dog  beside  him. 
Two  footmen,  in  gorgeous  liveries,  with  huge 
bouquets,  and  gold-headed  canes,  lolled  behind. 
The  carriage  rose  and  sunk  on  its  long  springs 
with  peculiar  stateliness  of  motion.  The  very 
horses  champed  their  bits,  arched  their  necks,  and 
glanced  their  eyes  more  proudly  than  common 
horses ;  either  because  they  had  caught  a  little  of 
the  family  feeling,  or  were  reined  up  more  tightly 
than  ordinary. 

I  could  not  but  admire  the  style  with  which 
this  splendid  pageant  was  brought  up  to  the  gate 
of  the  churchyard.  There  was  a  vast  effect  pro 
duced  at  the  turning  of  an  angle  of  the  wall ;  — 
a  great  smacking  of  the  whip,  straining  and 
scrambling  of  horses,  glistening  of  harness,  and 
Hashing  of  wheels  through  gravel.  This  was  the 
moment  of  triumph  and  vainglory  to  the  coach 
man.  The  horses  were  urged  and  checked  until 
they  were  fretted  into  a  foam.  .  They  threw  out 
their  feet  in  a  prancing  trot,  dashing  about  peb 
bles  at  every  step.  The  crowd  of  villagers  saun 
tering  quietly  to  church,  opened  precipitately  to 
the  right  and  left,  gaping  in  vacant  admiration 
On  reaclung  the  gate,  the  horses  were  pulled  up 


THE   COUNTRY  CHU1WH.  139 

with  a  suddenness    that  produced  an  immediate 
stop,  and  almost  threw  them  on  their  haunches. 

There  was  an  extraordinary  hurry  of  the  foot 
man  to  alight,  pull  down  the  steps,  and  prepare 
everything  for  the  descent  on  earth  of  this  august 
family  The  old  citizen  first  emerged  his  round 
red  faoe  from  out  the  door,  looking  about  him 
with  the  pompous  air  of  a  man  accustomed  to 
rule  on  'Change,  and  shake  the  Stock  Market 
with  a  nod.  His  consort,  a  fine,  fleshy,  comfort 
able  dame,  followed  him.  There  seemed,  I  must 
confess,  but  little  pride  in  her  composition.  Sho 
was  the  picture  of  broad,  honest  vulgar  enjoy 
ment.  The  world  went  well  with  her ;  and  she 
liked  the  world.  She  had  fine  clothes,  a  fine 
house,  a  fine  carriage,  fine  children,  everything 
was  fine  about  her :  it  was  nothing  but  driving 
about,  and  visiting  and  feasting.  Life  was  to  her 
a  perpetual  revel ;  it  was  one  long  Lord  Mayor's 
day. 

Two  daughters  succeeded  to  this  goodly  couple, 
They  certainly  were  handsome ;  but  had  a  super 
cilious  air,  that  chilled  admiration,  and  disposed 
the  spectator  to  be  critical.  They  were  ultra- 
fashionable  in  dress ;  and,  though  no  one  could 
deny  the  richness  of  their  decorations,  yet  theii 
appropriateness  might  be  questioned  amidst  the 
simplicity  of  a  country  church.  They  descended 
loftily  from  the  carriage,  and  moved  up  the  lint! 
of  peasantry  with  a  step  that  seeim-d  dainty  of 
the  soil  it  trod  on  They  cast  an  exclusive 
glance  around,  that  passed  coldly  over  the  burly 
faces  of  the  peasantry,  mtil  thtiy  met  the  eyes  of 


140  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  nobleman's  family,  when  their  countenances 
immediately  brightened  into  smiles,  and  they 
made  the  most  profound  and  elegant  courtesies, 
which  were  returned  in  a  manner  that  showed 
Ihcy  were  but  slight  acquaintances. 

I  must  not  forget  the  two  sons  of  this  aspiring 
citizen,  who  came  to  church  in  a  dashing  curricle, 
with  outriders.  They  were  arrayed  in  the  ex 
tremity  of  the  mode,  with  all  that  pedantry  of 
dress  which  marks  the  man  of  questionable  pre 
tensions  to  style.  They  kept  entirely  by  them 
selves,  eying  every  one  askance  that  came  near 
them,  as  if  measuring  his  claims  to  respectability ; 
yet  they  were  without  conversation,  except  the 
exchange  of  an  occasional  cant  phrase.  They 
even  moved  artificially ;  for  their  bodies,  in  com 
pliance  with  the  caprice  of  the  day,  had  bt;en 
disciplined  into  the  absence  of  all  ease  and  free 
dom.  Art  had  done  everything  to  accomplish 
them  as  men  of  fashion,  but  nature  had  denied 
them  the  nameless  grace.  They  were  vulgarly 
shaped,  like  men  farmed  for  the  common  purposes 
of  life,  and  had  that  air  of  supercilious  assump 
tion  which  is  never  seen  in  the  true  gentleman. 

I  have  been  rather  minute  in  drawing  the  pict 
ures  of  these  two  families,  because  I  considered 
(hem  specimens  of  what  is  often  to  be  met  witfc 
in  this  country  —  the  unpretending  great,  and  (liO 
arrogant  little.  I  have  no  respect  for  titled  rank, 
unless  it  be  accompanied  with  true  nobility  of 
soul ;  but  I  have  remarked  in  all  countries  where 
artilicial  distinctions  exist,  that  the  very  highest 
classes  are  alwavs  the  most  courteous  and  unas* 


THE   COUNTRY  CHURCH.  HI 

siiming.  Those  who  are  well  .assured  of  their 
own  standing  are  least  apt  to  trespass  on  that  of 
others ;  whereas  nothing  is  so  offensive  as  the 
aspirings  of  vulgarity,  which  thinks  to  elevate  it 
self  by  humiliating  its  neighbor. 

As  I  have  brought  these  families  into  contrast, 
F  must  notice  their  behavior  in  church.  That  of 
the  nobleman's  family  was  quiet,  serious,  and 
attentive.  Not  that  they  appeared  to  have  any 
fervor  of  devotion,  but  rather  a  respect  for  sacred 
things,  and  sacred  places,  inseparable  from  good 
breeding.  The  others,  on  the  contrary,  were  in 
a  perpetual  flutter  and  whisper;  they  betrayed 
a  continual  consciousness  of  finery,  and  a  sorry 
ambition  of  being  the  wonders  of  a  rural  con 
gregation. 

The  old  gentleman  was  the  only  one  really  at 
tentive  to  the  service.  He  took  the  whole  bur 
den  of  family  devotion  upon  himself,  standing 
bolt  upright,  and  uttering  the  responses  with  a 
loud  voice  that  might  be  heard  all  over  the 
church.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  one  of 
those  thorough  church  and  king  men,  who  con 
nect  the  idea  of  devotion  and  loyalty  ;  who  con 
sider  tli3  Deity,  somehow  or  other,  of  the  govern 
ment  party,  and  religion  "  a  very  excellent  sort 
of  thing,  that  ought  to  be  countenanced  and  kept 
lip." 

When  he  joined  so  loudly  in  the  service,  it 
seemed  more  by  way  of  example  to  the  lower 
orders,  to  show  them  that,  though  so  great  and 
wealthy,  he  was  not  above  being  religious  ;  as  I 
have  seen  a  turtle-fed  alderman  swallow  publicly 


142  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

a  basin  of  charity  soup,  smacking  his  lips  at  every 
mouthful,  and  pronouncing  it  "  excellent  food  for 
the  poor." 

AVhen  the  service  was  at  an  end,  I  was  cu 
rious  to  witness  the  several  exits  of  my  groups. 
The  young  noblemen  and  their  sisters,  as  tho 
clay  was  fine,  preferred  strolling  home  across 
the  fields,  chatting  with  the  country  people  as 
they  went.  The  others  departed  as  they  came, 
in  grand  parade.  Again  were  the  equipages 
wheeled  up  to  the  gate.  There  was  again  the 
smacking  of  whips,  the  clattering  of  hoofs,  and 
the  glittering  of  harness.  The  horses  started  off 
almost  at  a  bound  ;  the  villagers  again  hurried 
to  right  and  left ;  the  wheels  threw  up  a  cloud 
of  dust ;  and  the  aspiring  family  was  rapt  rat  of 
sight  in  a  whirlwind. 


THE   WIDOW    AND   HER   SON. 


Pittie  olde  age,  within  whose  silver  haires 
Honour  and  reverence  evermore  have  rain'd. 
MAKKLOWE'S  T 


^  HOSE  who  are   in  the  habit  of  remark 
ing  such  matters,  must  have  noticed  the 


passive  quiet  of  an  English  landscape 
on  Sunday.  The  clacking  of  the  mill,  the  regu 
larly  recurring  stroke  of  the  flail,  the  din  of  the 
blacksmith's  hammer,  the  whistling  of  the  plough 
man,  the  rattling  of  the  cart,  and  all  other  sounds 
of  rural  labor  are  suspended.  The  very  farm- 
dogs  bark  less  frequently,  being  less  disturbed  by 
passing  travellers.  At  such  times  I  have  almos 
fancied  the  winds  sunk  into  quiet,  and  that  thc» 
Bunny  landscape,  with  its  fresh  green  tints  melting 
into  blue  haze,  enjoyed  the  hallowed  calm. 

Sweet  day,  so  pure,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky. 

Well  was  it  ordained  that  the  day  of  devotion 
fihould  be  a  day  of  rest.  The  holy  repose  which 
reigns  over  the  face  of  nature  has  its  moral  in 
fluence ;  every  restless  passion  is  charmed  down, 
and  we  feel  the  natural  religion  of  the  soid  gently 
springing  up  within  us.  For  my  part,  there  arc 
feelings  that  visit  me,  in  a  country  church,  amid 

143 


144  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  beautiful  serenity  of  nature,  which  I 
rience  nowhere  else :  and  if  not  a  more  relig 
ious,  I  think  I  am  a  better  man  on  Sunday  than 
on  any  olhcr  day  of  the  seven. 

During  my  recent  residence  in  the  country.  I 
nsed  frequently  to  attend  at  the  old  village  church. 
Its  shadowy  aisles  ;  its  mouldering  monuments  ;  its 
•lark  oaken  panelling,  all  reverend  with  the  gloom 
of  departed  years,  seemed  to  fit  it  for  the  haunt  of 
solemn  meditation  ;  bjt  being  in  a  wealthy,  aris 
tocratic  neighborhood,  the  glitter  of  fashion  pene 
trated  even  into  the  sanctuary ;  and  I  felt  myself 
continually  thrown  back  upon  the  world  by  the 
frigidity  and  pomp  of  the  poor  worms  around  me. 
The  only  being  in  the  whole  congregation  who  ap 
peared  thoroughly  to  feel  the  humble  and  prostrate 
piety  of  a  true  Christian  was  a  poor  decrepit  old 
woman,  bending  under  the  weight  of  years  and  in 
firmities.  She  bore  the  traces  of  something  better 
than  abject  poverty.  The  lingerings  of  decent 
pride  were  visible  in  her  appearance.  Her  dress, 
though  humble  in  the  extreme,  was  scrupulously 
clean.  Some  trivial  respect,  too,  had  been  awarded 
her,  for  she  did  not  take  her  seat  among  the  village 
poor,  but  sat  alone  on  the  steps  of  the  altar.  She 
seemed  to  have  survived  all  love,  all  friendship,  all 
society ;  and  to  have  nothing  left  her  but  the  hop*;3 
of  heaven.  When  I  saw  her  feebly  rising  and 
bending  her  aged  form  in  prayer ;  habitually  con 
ning  her  prayer-book,  which  her  palsied  hand  and 
failing  eyes  would  not  permit  her  to  read,  but 
which  she  evidently  knew  by  heart;  I  felt  per« 
suaded  that  the  faltering  voice  of  that  poor  womac 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON.  145 

wose  to  heaven  far  before  the  responses  of  the  clerk, 
the  swell  of  the  organ,  or  the  chanting  of  the  choir. 
]  am  fond  of  loitering  about  country  churches  ; 
and  this  was  so  delightfully  situated,  that  it  fre 
quently  attracted  me.  It  stood  on  a  knoll,  round 
which  a  small  stream  made  a  beautiful  bend,  and 
then  wound  its  way  through  a  long  reach  of  soft 
meadow  scenery  The  church  was  surrounded  by 
yew-trees  wliicli  seemed  almost  coeval  with  itself. 
Its  tall  Gothic  spire  shot  up  lightly  from  among 
them,  with  rooks  and  crows  generally  wheeling 
about  it.  I  was  seated  there  one  still  sunny  morn 
ing,  watching  two  laborers  who  were  digging  a 
grave.  They  had  chosen  one  of  the  most  remote 
and  neglected  corners  ot  the  churchyard ;  where, 
from  the  number  of  nameless  graves  around,  it 
would  appear  that  the  indigent  and  friendless  were 
huddled  into  the  earth.  I  was  told  that  the  new- 
made  grave  was  for  the  only  son  of  a  poor  widow. 
While  I  was  meditating  on  the  distinctions  of 
worldly  rank,  which  extend  thus  down  into  the 
very  dust,  the  toll  of  the  bell  announced  the  ap 
proach  of  the  funeral.  They  were  the  obsequies 
of  poverty,  with  which  pride  had  nothing  to  do. 
A  coffin  of  the  plainest  materials,  without  pall  or 
other  covering,  was  borne  by  some  of  tLe  villagers. 
The  sexton  walked  before  with  an  air  of  cold  in- 
difference.  There  were  10  mock  mourners  in  the 
trappings  of  affected  woe ;  but  there  was  cne  real 
mourner  who  feebly  tottered  after  the  corpse.  It 
was  the  aged  mother  of  the  deceased,  the  poor 
old  woman  whom  I  had  seen  seated  on  the  steps 
of  the  altar.  She  was  supported  by  an  humbta 
10 


1'iG  THE  SKETCH-XVUK. 

friend,  who  was  endeavoring  to  tomfoit  her.  A 
few  of  the  neighboring  poor  had  joined  the  train, 
and  some  children  of  the  village  were  running 
hand  in  hand,  now  shouting  with  unthinking  mirth; 
and  now  pausing  to  gaze,  with  childish  curiosity, 
on  the  grief  of  the  mourner. 

As  the  funeral  train  approached  the  grave,  the 
parson  issued  forth  from  the  church-porch,  arrayed 
in  the  surplice,  with  prayer-book  in  hand,  and  at 
tended  by  the  clerk.  The  service,  however,  was  a 
mere  act  of  charity.  The  deceased  had  been  des 
titute,  and  the  survivor  was  penniless.  It  was 
shuffled  through,  therefore,  in  form,  but  coldly  and 
unfeelingly.  The  well-fed  priest  moved  but  a  few 
steps  from  the  church-door ;  his  voice  could  scarce 
ly  be  heard  at  the  grave  ;  and  never  did  I  hear  the 
funeral  service,  that  sublime  and  touching  ceremo 
ny,  turned  into  such  a  frigid  mummery  of  words. 

I  approached  the  grave.  The  coffin  was  placed 
on  the  ground.  On  it  were  inscribed  the  name 
and  age  of  the  deceased  —  "  George  Somers,  aged 
26  years."  The  poor  mother  had  been  assisted  to 
kneel  down  at  the  head  of  it.  Her  withered  hai.d* 
were  clasped,  as  if  in  prayer,  but  I  could  perceive 
by  a  feeble  rocking  of  the  body,  and  a  convulsi/e 
motion  of  her  lips,  that  she  was  gazing  on  the  last 
relics  of  her  son  with  the  yearnings  of  a  mother's 
heart. 

Preparations  were  made  to  deposit  the  coffin  in 
the  earth.     There  was  that  bustling  stir  which 
breaks  so  harshly  on  the  feelings  of  grief  and  atfec- 
tion ;  directions  given  in  the  cold  tones  of  business 
the  striking  of  spades  into  sand  and  grave]  ;  which, 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON.  147 

at  the  grave  of  those  we  love,  is,  of  oil  soY<nds,  lha 
most  withering.  The  bustle  around  seemed  TO 
waken  the  mother  from  a  wretched  reverie.  She 
raised  her  glazed  eyes,  and  looked  about  with  a 
fiii nt  wildness.  As  the  men  approached  with  cords 
to  lower  the  coffin  into  the  grave,  she  wrung  her 
hands,  and  broke  into  an  agony  of  grief.  The  poor 
woman  who  attended  her  took  her  by  the  arm.  en 
deavoring  to  raise  her  from  the  earth,  and  to  whis 
per  something  like  consolation,  —  "Nay,  now  — 
nay,  now  —  don't  take  it  so  sorely  to  heart."  Sho 
could  only  shake  her  head  and  wring  hej  hands,  as 
one  not  to  be  comforted. 

As  they  lowered  the  body  into  the  eirth,  the 
creaking  of  the  cords  seemed  to  agonize  her ;  but 
when,  on  some  accidental  obstruction,  theie  was  a 
justling  of  the  coffin,  all  the  tenderness  of  the 
mother  burst  forth ;  as  if  any  harm  could  come  to 
him  who  was  far  beyond  the  reach  of  worldly  suf 
fering. 

I  could  see  no  more  —  my  heart  swelled  into  my 
throat  —  my  eyes  filled  with  tears  —  I  felt  as  if  I 
were  acting  a  barbarous  part  in  standing  by,  and 
gazing  idly  on  this  scene  of  maternal  anguish.  1 
wandered  to  another  part  of  the  churchyard,  where 
I  remained  until  the  funeral  train  had  dispersed. 

"\Vhen  I  saw  the  mother  slowly  and  painfully 
quitting  the  grave,  leaving  behind  her  the  remains 
of  all  that  was  dear  to  her  on  earth,  and  return 
ing  to  silence  and  destitution,  my  heart  ached  for 
her.  What,  thought  I,  are  the  distresses  of  the 
rich!  They  have  friends  to  soothe  —  pleasures  to 
beguile  —  a  world  to  divert  and  dissipate)  theb 


148  THE  SKETCH-LOOK. 

griefs.  "What  arc  the  sorrows  of  the  yoang !  Their 
growing  minds  soon  close  above  the  wound  —  their 
elastic  spirits  soon  rise  beneath  tlie  pressure  — 
their  green  and  ductile  affections  soon  twine  round 
.<jew  objects.  But  the  SDITOWS  of  tlie  poor,  who 
have  no  outward  appliances  to  soothe,  —  the  sor 
rows  of  the  aged,  with  whom  life  at  best  is  but  a 
wintry  day,  and  who  can  look  for  no  after-growth 
of  joy,  —  the  sorrows  of  a,  widow,  aged,  solitary, 
destitute,  mounting  over  an  only  son,  the  last  sol 
ace  of  her  years:  these  are  indeed  sorrows  which 
make  us  feel  the  impotcncy  of  consolation. 

Jt  was  some  time  before  I  left  the  churchyard. 
On  my  way  homeward  I  met  with  the  woman 
who  had  acted  as  comforter:  she  was  just  return 
ing  from  accompanying  the  mother  to  her  lonely 
habitation,  and  I  drew  from  her  some  particulars 
connected  with  the  affecting  scene  1  had  witnessed. 

The  parents  of  the  deceased  had  resided  in  tho 
village  from  childhood.  They  had  inhabited  one 
of  the  neatest  cottages,  and  by  various  rural  occu 
pations,  and  the  assistance  of  a,  small  garden,  had 
tuppcrted  themselves  creditably  and  comfortably, 
and  led  a  happy  and  a  blameless  life.  They  had  one 
son,  who  had  grown  up  to  be  the  staff  and  pride 
of  their  age.  —  "Oh,  sir!"  said  the  good  woman, 
"  he  was  such  a  comely  lad,  so  sweet-tempered,  so 
kind  to  every  one  around  him,  so  dutiful  to  hia 
parents !  It  did  one's  heart  good  to  see  him  of  a 
Sunday,  dressed  out  in  his  best,  so  tall,  so  straight, 
so  cheery,  supporting  his  old  mother  to  church,— 
for  she  was  always  fonder  of  leaning  on  George'g 
arm  than  on  her  good  man's  and,  poor  soul,  aha 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON.  149 

might  well  be  proud  of  him,  for  a  finer  lad  there 
was  not  in  the  country  round." 

Unfortunately,  the  son  was  tempted,  during  a 
year  of  scarcity  and  agricultural  hardship,  to  enter 
into  the  service  of  one  of  the  small  craft  that  plied 
on  a  neighboring  river,  lie  had  not  been  long  in 
this  employ  when  he  was  entrapped  by  a  press- 
gang,  and  carried  off  to  sea.  His  parents  received 
tidings  of  his  seizure,  but  beyond  that  they  could 
learn  nothing.  It  was  the  loss  of  their  main  prop. 
The  father,  who  was  already  infirm,  grew  heartless 
and  melancholy,  and  sunk  into  his  grave.  The 
widow,  left  lonely  in  her  age  and  feebleness,  could 
no  longer  support  herself,  and  came  upon  the  parish 
Still  there  was  a  kind  feeling  toward  her  through 
out  the  village,  and  a  certain  respect  as  being  one 
of  the  oldest  inhabitants.  As  no  one  applied  for 
the  cottage,  in  which  she  had  passed  so  many  happy 
days,  she  was  permitted  to  remain  in  it,  where  she 
lived  solitary  and  almost  helpless.  The  few  wants 
of  nature  were  chiefly  supplied  from  the  scanty  pro 
ductions  of  her  little  garden,  which  the  neighbors 
would  now  and  then  cultivate  for  her.  It  was  but 
a  few  days  before  the  time  at  which  these  circum 
stances  were  told  me,  that  she  was  gathering  some 
vegetables  for  her  repast,  when  she  heard  the  cot* 
tage-door  which  faced  the  garden  suddenly  opened. 
A  stranger  came  out,  and  seemed  to  be  locking 
eagerly  and  wildly  around.  He  was  dressed  hi 
seaman's  clothes,  was  emaciated  and  ghastly  pale, 
and  bore  the  air  of  one  broken  by  sickness  and 
hardships,  lie  saw  her,  and  hastened  towards  her 
but  his  steps  were  faint  and  faltering ;  he  sank  on 


150  T1IE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

his  knees  before  her,  and  sobbed  like  a  child.  Th« 
poor  woman  gazed  upon  him  with  a  vacant  and 
wandering  eye,  —  "  Oh,  my  dear,  dear  mother ! 
don't  you  know  your  son?  your  poor  boy, 
George  ?  "  It  was  indeed  the  wreck  of  her  once 
noble  lad,  who,  shattered  by  wounds,  by  sickness 
and  foreign  imprisonment,  had,  at  length,  dragged 
his  wasted  limbs  homeward,  to  repose  among  the 
scenes  of  his  childhood. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  detail  the  particulars  of  such 
a  meeting,  where  joy  and  sorrow  were  so  complete 
ly  blended  :  still  lie  was  alive  !  he  was  come  home  ! 
ae  might  yet  live  to  comfort  and  cherish  her  old 
age  !  Nature,  however,  was  exhausted  in  him;  and 
if  anything  had  been  wanting  to  finish  the  work 
of  fate,  the  desolation  of  his  native  cottage  would 
have  been  sufficient.  He  stretched  himself  on  the 
pallet  on  which  his  widowed  mother  had  passed 
many  a  sleepless  night,  and  he  never  rose  from  it 
again. 

The  villagers,  when  they  heard  that  George 
Somers  had  returned,  crowded  to  see  him,  offering 
every  comfort  and  assistance  that  their  humble 
means  afforded.  lie  was  too  weak,  however,  to 
talk  —  he  could  only  look  his  thanks.  His  mother 
was  his  constant  attendant ;  and  he  seemed  unwil!* 
ing  to  be  helped  by  any  other  hand. 

There  is  something  in  sickness  that  breaks  down 
the  pride  of  manhood  ;  that  softens  the  heart,  and 
brings  it  back  to  the  feelings  of  infancy.  Win  that 
has  languished,  even  in  advanced  life,  in  sickness 
and  despondency ;  who  that  has  pined  on  a  weary 
bed  in  the  neglect  and  loneliness  of  a  foreign  land; 


THE  WIDOW  AN-L  HER  SON.  151 

bat  has  thought  on  the  mother  "  that  looked  on  hia 
childhood,"  that  smoothed  his  pillow,  and  adminis 
tered  to  his  helplessness  ?  Oh  !  there  is  an  endur 
ing  tenderness  in  the  love  of  a  mother  to  her  son 
that  transcends  all  other  affections  of  the  heart, 
It  is  neither  to  be  chilled  by  selfishness,  nor  daunt 
ed  by  danger,  nor  weakened  by  worthlessness,  nor 
stifled  by  ingratitude.  She  will  sacrifice  every 
comfort  to  his  convenience ;  she  will  surrendei 
every  pleasure  to  his  enjoyment ;  she  will  glory  in 
his  fame,  and  exult  in  his  prosperity ; — and,  if 
misfortune  overtake  him,  he  will  be  the  dearer  to 
her  from  misfortune ;  and  if  disgrace  settle  upon 
his  name,  she  will  still  love  and  cherish  him  in 
spite  of  his  disgrace ;  and  if  all  the  world  beside- 
cast  him  off,  she  will  be  all  the  world  to  him. 

Poor  George  Somers  had  known  what  it  was  to 
be  in  sickness,  and  none  to  soothe, — lonely  and  in 
prison,  and  none  to  visit  him.  He  could  not  en 
dure  his  mother  from  his  sight;  if  she  moved 
away,  his  eye  would  follow  her.  She  would  sit 
for  hours  by  his  bed,  watching  him  as  he  slept. 
Sometimes  he  would  start  from  a  feverish  dream, 
and  look  anxiously  up  until  he  saw  her  bending 
over  him ;  when  he  would  take  her  hand,  lay  it 
on  his  bosom,  and  fall  asleep,  with  the  tranquillity 
of  a  child.  In  this  way  he  died. 

My  first  impulse  on  hearing  this  humble  tale  of 
affliction  was  to  visit  the  cottage  of  the  mourner, 
and  administer  pecuniary  assistance,  and,  if  possi- 
ble,  comfort.  I  found,  however,  on  inquiry,  that 
the  good  feelings  of  the  villagers  had  prompted 
them  to  do  everything  that  the  case  admitted; 


152  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  as  the  poor  know  best  how  to  console  each 
other's  sorrows,  I  did  not  venture  to  intrude. 

The  next  Sunday  I  was  at  the  village  church 
when,  to  my  surprise,   I  saw  the  poor  old  woman 
tottering  down  the  aisle  to  her  accustomed  seat  OB 
the  steps  of  the  altar. 

She  had  made  an  effort  to  put  on  something  like 
mourning  for  her  son ;  and  nothing  could  be  more 
touching  than  this  struggle  between  pious  affection 
and  utter  poverty :  a  black  ribbon  or  so,  a  faded 
black  handkerchief,  and  one  or  two  more  sucb 
humble  attempts  to  express  by  outward  signs  that 
grief  which  passes  show.  When  I  looked  round 
upon  the  storied  monuments,  the  stately  hatch 
ments,  the  cold  marble  pomp,  with  which  grandeui 
mourned  magnificently  over  departed  paide,  and 
turned  to  this  poor  widow,  bowed  down  by  age  and 
sorrow,  at  the  altar  of  her  God,  and  offering  up  the 
prayers  and  praises  of  a  pious,  though  a  broken 
heart,  I  felt  that  this  living  monument  of  real  grief 
was  worth  them  all. 

I  related  her  story  to  some  of  the  wealthy  mem 
bers  of  the  congregation,  and  they  were  moved  by 
it.  They  exerted  themselves  to  render  her  situa 
tion  more  comfortable,  and  to  lighten  her  afflictions* 
It  was,  however,  but  smoothing  a  few  steps  to  tho 
grave.  In  the  course  of  a  Sunday  or  two  after, 
she  was  missed  from  her  usual  seat  at  church,  ami 
before  I  left  the  neighborhood,  I  heard,  with  a  feel 
ing  of  satisfaction.,  that  die  had  quietly  breathed 
her  last,  and  had  gone  to  rejoin  thoso  she  lovcil, 
in  that  world  where  sorrow  is  never  known  and 
friends  are  never  parted. 


A   SUNDAY   IN   LONDON.* 


IN  a  preceding  paper  I  have  spoken  ot  au 
English  Sunday  in  the  country,  and  its 
tranquillizing  effect  upon  the  landscape ; 
but  where  is  its  sacred  influence  more  strikingly 
apparent  than  in  the  very  heart  of  that  great 
Babel,  London  ?  On  this  sacred  day,  the  gigan 
tic  monster  is  charmed  into  repose.  The  intoler 
able  din  and  struggle  of  the  week  are  at  an  end. 
The  shops  are  shut.  The  fires  of  forges  and 
manufactories  are  extinguished  ;  and  the  sun,  no 
longer  obscured  by  murky  clouds  of  smoke,  pours 
lown  a  sober,  yellow  radiance  into  the  quiea 
streets.  The  few  pedestrians  we  meet,  instead 
of  hurrying  forward  with  anxious  countenances, 
move  leisurely  along ;  their  brows  are  smoothed 
from  the  wrinkles  of  business  and  care ;  they 
have  put  on  their  Sunday  looks  and  Sunday  man- 

*  Part  of  a  sketch  omitted  in  the  preceding  editions. 

153 


154  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

tiers  with  their  Sunday  clothes,  and  are  cleansed 
hi  mind  as  well  as  in  person. 

And  now  the  melodious  clangor  of  bells  iron, 
church-towers  summons  their  several  flocks  to  the 
fold.  Forth  issues  from  his  mansion  the  family 
of  the  deceii  tradesman,  the  small  children  in  the 
advance ;  then  the  citizen  arid  his  comely  spouse, 
followed  by  the  grown-up  daughters,  with  small 
morocco-bound  prayer-books  laid  in  the  folds  of 
their  pocket-handkerchiefs.  The  housemaid  Iook3 
after  ftiem  from  the  window,  admiring  the  finery 
of  the  family,  and  receiving,  perhaps,  a  nod  and 
smile  from  her  young  mistresses,  at  whose  toilet 
she  has  assisted. 

Now  rumbles  along  the  carriage  of  some  mag 
nate  of  the  city,  peradvcnture  an  alderman  or  a 
sheriff ;  and  now  the  patter  of  many  feet  an 
nounces  a  procession  of  charity  scholars,  in  uni 
forms  of  antique  cut,  and  each  with  a  prayer- 
book  under  his  arm. 

The  linging  of  bells  is  at  an  end;  the  rum 
bling  of  the  carriage  has  ceased ;  the  pattering  of 
feet  is  heard  no  more  ;  the  Hocks  are  folded  in 
ancient  churches,  cramped  up  in  by-lanes  and 
corners  of  the  crowded  city,  where  the  vigilant 
beadle  keeps  "\vntch,  like  the  shepherd's  dog,  round 
the  threshold  of  the  sanctuary.  For  a  time 
everything  is  hushed  ;  1  ut  soon  is  heard  the  deep, 
pervading  sound  of  the  organ,  rolling  and  vibrat 
ing  through  the  empty  lanes  and  courts;  and  the 
sweet  chanting  of  the  choir  making  them  resound 
with  melody  and  praise.  Never  have  I  been 
more  sensible  of  the  sanctifying  effect  of  church- 
music  than  when  J  have  heard  it  thus  poured 


A  SUNDAY  IN  LONDON.  155 

Forth,  like  a  river  of  joy,  through  the  inmost  re 
cesses  of  this  great  metropolis,  elevating  it,  as  il 
were,  from  all  the  sordid  pollutions  of  the  week ; 
and  bearing  the  poor  world-worn  soul  011  a  tide 
of  triumphant  harmony  to  heaven. 

The  -morning  service  is  at  an  end.  The  streets 
nre  again  alive  with  the  congregations  returning 
to  their  homes,  but  soon  again  relapse  into  silence. 
Now  comes  on  the  Sunday  dinner,  which,  to  the 
city  tradesman,  is  a  meal  of  some  importance. 
There  is  more  leisure  for  social  enjoyment  at  the 
board.  Members  of  the  family  can  now  gather 
together,  who  are  separated  by  the  laborious  occu 
pations  of  the  week.  A  school-boy  may  be  per 
mitted  on  that  day  to  come  to  the  paternal  home  ; 
an  old  friend  of  the  family  takes  his  accustomed 
Sunday  seat  at  the  board,  tells  over  his  well- 
known  stories,  and  rejoices  young  and  old  with 
his  well-known  jokes. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  the  city  pours  forth  its 
legions  to  breathe  the  fresh  air  and  enjoy  the  sun 
shine  of  the  parks  and  rural  environs.  Satirists 
may  say  what  they  please  about  the  rural  enjoy 
ments  of  a  London  citizen  on  Sunday,  but  to  me 
there  is  something  delightful  in  beholding  the  poor 
prisoner  of  the  crowded  and  dusty  city  enabled 
thus  to  come  forth  once  a  week  and  throw  himself 
upon  the  green  bosom  of  nature.  He  is  like  a 
child  restored  to  the  mother's  breast ;  And  they  who 
first  spread  out  these  noble  parks  and  magnificent 
pleasure-grounds  which  surround  this  huge  me 
tropolis,  have  done  at  least  as  much  for  its  health 
and  morality  as  if  they  had  expended  the  amount 
of  cost  in  hospitals,  prisons,  and  penitentiaries. 


THE  BOUTS  HEAD  TAVERN,  EASTCIIEAP 

A    SIIAKSPEARIAN    RESEARCH. 


"  A  tavern  is  the  rendezvous,  the  exchange,  the  staple  of 
good  fellows.  I  have  heard  my  great-grandfather  tell,  how 
bis  great-great-grandfather  should  say,  that  it  was  an  old 
proverb  when  his  great-grandfather  was  a  child,  that  'it  waa 
a  good  wind  that  blew  a  man  to  the  wine.'  " 

MOTHER  BOMBIIS. 

T  is  a  pious  custom,  in  some  Catholic 
countries,  to  honor  the  memory  of  saints 
by  votive  lights  burnt  before  their  pict 
ures.  The  popularity  of  a  saint,  therefore,  may 
be  known  by  the  number  of  these  offerings.  One, 
perhaps,  is  left  to  moulder  in  the  darkness  of  his 
little  chapel ;  another  may  have  a  solitary  lamp 
to  throw  its  blinking  rays  athwart  his  eifigy ; 
while  the  whole  blaze  of  adoration  is  lavished  at 
the  shrine  of  some  beatified  father  of  renown. 
The  wealthy  devotee  brings  his  huge  luminary 
of  wax ;  the  eager  zealot  his  seven-branched  can 
dlestick  ;  and  even  the  mendicant  pilgrim  is  by  no 
means  satisfied  that  sufficient  light  is  thrown  up 
on  the  deceased,  unless  he  hangs  up  his  little  lamp 
of  smoking  oil.  The  consequence  is,  that  in  the 
eagerness  to  enlighten,  they  arc  often  apt  to  ob 
scure  ;  and  I  have  occasionally  seen  an  unlucky 
saint  almost  smoked  out  of  counlenai  ce  by  the 
ofSciousncss  of  hi.s  followers. 


BOAR'S  HEAD  TAVERN,  EASTCHEAP.    157 

In  like  manner  has  it  Aired  with  the  immortal 
Shakspeare.  Pivery  writer  considers  it  his  boun< 
den  duty  to  light  up  some  portion  of  his  charac 
ter  or  works,  and  to  rescue  some  merit  from  ob- 
iivion.  The  commentator,  opulent  in  words,  pro 
duces  vast  tomes  of  dissertations ;  the  common 
liDid  of  editors  send  up  mists  of  obscurity  from 
their  notes  at  the  bottom  of  each  page  ;  niicl  ev 
ery  casual  scribbler  brings  his  farthing  rushlight 
of  eulogy  or  research,  to  swell  the  cloud  of  in 
cense  and  of  smoke. 

As  I  honor  all  established  usages  of  my  breth 
ren  of  the  quill,  I  thought  it  but  proper  to  con 
tribute  my  mite  of  homage  to  the  memory  of  the 
illustrious  bard.  I  was  for  some  time,  however, 
sorely  puzzled  in  what  way  I  should  discharge 
this  duty.  I  found  myself  anticipated  in  every 
attempt  at  a  new  reading;  every  doubtful  line 
had  been  explained  a  dozen  different  ways,  and 
perplexed  beyond  the  reach  of  elucidation;  and 
as  to  fine  passages,  they  had  all  been  amply 
praised  by  previous  admirers ;  nay,  so  completely 
had  the  bard,  of  late,  been  overlarded  with  pane 
gyric  by  a  great  German  critic,  that  it  was  diffi 
cult  now  to  find  even  a  fault  that  had  not  been 
argued  into  a  beauty. 

In  this  perplexity,  I  was  one  morning  turning 
over  his  pages,  when  I  casually  opened  upon  the 
cemic  scenes  of  Henry  IV.,  and  was,  in  a  mo 
ment,  completely  lost  in  the  madcap  revelry  of 
the  Boar's  Head  Tavern.  So  vividly  and  nat 
urally  are  these  scenes  of  humor  depicted,  and 
with  such  force  and  consistency  are  the  characters 
sustained,  that  they  become  mingled  up  in  the 


158  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

mind  witt  the  facts  and  personages  of  real  Hfft 
To  few  readers  does  it  occur,  that  these  are  all 
ideal  creations  of  a  poet's  bruin,  and  that,  in 
sober  truth,  no  such  knot  of  merry  roisters  ever 
enlivened  the  dull  neighborhood  of  Eastcheap. 

For  my  part  I  love  to  give  myself  up  to  tLo 
illusions  of  poetry.  A  hero  of  fiction  that  never 
existed  is  just  as  valuable  to  me  as  a  hero  of 
history  that  existed  a  thousand  years  since  :  and, 
if  I  may  be  excused  such  an  insensibility  to  tho 
common  ties  of  human  nature,  I  would  not  give 
up  fat  Jack  for  half  the  great  men  of  ancient 
chronicle.  What  have  the  heroes  of  yore  done 
for  me,  or  men  like  me  ?  They  have  conquered 
countries  of  which  I  do  not  enjoy  an  acre ;  or 
they  have  gained  laurels  of  which  I  do  not  in 
herit  a  leaf;  or  they  have  furnished  example? 
of  hair-brained  prowess,  which  I  have  neithei 
the  opportunity  nor  the  inclination  to  follow. 
But,  old  Jack  Falstaif !  —  kind  Jack  Falstaff!  — 
sweet  Jack  Falstaff!  —  has  enlarged  the  bounda 
ries  of  human  enjoyment ;  he  has  added  vast  re 
gions  of  wit  and  good-humor,  in  which  the  poorest 
man  may  revel ;  and  has  bequeathed  a  never- 
failing  inheritance  of  jolly  laughter,  to  make  man 
kind  merrier  and  better  to  the  latest  posterity. 

A  thought  suddenly  struck  me :  "  I  will  make 
a  pilgrimage  to  Eastcheap,"  said  I,  closing  tho 
book,  "  and  see  if  the  old  Boar's  Head  Tavern 
still  exists.  Who  knows  but  I  may  light  upon 
some  legendary  traces  of  Dame  Quickly  and  her 
guests ;  at  any  rate,  there  will  be  a  kindred 
pleasure,  in  treading  the  halls  once  vocal  with 
their  mirth,  to  that  the  toper  enjoys  in  smelling 


SOAR'S  HEAD  TA  VERN,  EASTCIIEAP.    150 

to  the  emp'y  cask  once  filled  with  generous 
wine." 

The  resolution  was  no  sooner  formed  than  put 
in  execution.  I  forbear  to  treat  of  the  various 
adventures  and  wonders  I  encountered  in  my 
travels ;  of  the  haunted  regions  of  Cock  Lane ; 
of  the  faded  glories  of  Little  Britain,  and  tlio 
parts  adjacent ;  what  perils  I  ran  in  Cateatou 
Street  and  old  Jewry ;  of  the  renowned  Guildhall 
and  its  two  stunted  giants,  the  pride  and  wonder 
of  the  city,  and  the  terror  of  all  unlucky  urchins ; 
and  how  I  visited  London  Stone,  and  struck  my 
staif  upon  it,  in  imitation  of  that  arch -rebel, 
Jack  Cade. 

Let  it  suffice  to  say,  that  I  at  length  arrived  in 
merry  Eastcheap,  that  ancient  region  of  wit  and 
wassail,  where  the  very  names  of  the  streets 
"dished  of  good  cheer,  as  Pudding  Lane  bears 
testimony  even  at  the  present  day.  For  East- 
cheap,  says  old  Stowe,  u  was  always  famous  for 
its  convivial  doings.  The  cookes  cried  hot  ribbes 
of  beef  roasted,  pies  well  baked,  and  other 
victuals :  there  was  clattering  of  pewter  pots, 
harpe,  pipe,  and  sawtrie."  Alas !  how  sadly  is 
the  scene  changed  since  the  roaring  days  of  Fal- 
staff  and  old  Stowe !  The  madcap  roister  has 
given  place  to  the  plodding  tradesman;  the  clat 
tering  of  pots  and  the  sound  of  "  harpe  and  saw- 
trie,"  to  the  din  of  carts  and  the  accursed  dinging 
of  the  dustman's  bell ;  and  no  song  is  heard,  save, 
haply,  the  strain  of  some  siren  from  Billingsgate* 
chanting  the  eulogy  of  deceased  mackerel. 

I  sought,  in  vain,  for  the  ancient  abode  of 
Dame  Quickly.  The  only  relic  of  it  is  a  boar's 


16<l  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

head,  carved  in  relief  in  stone,  which  formerly 
served  as  the  sign,  but  at  present  is  built  into  the 
parting  line  of  two  houses,  which  stand  on  the 
site  of  the  renowned  old  tavern. 

For  the  history  of  this  little  abode  of  gwd 
fellowship,  I  was  referred  to  a  tallow-chandler's 
widow,  opposite,  who  had  been  born  and  brought 
up  on  the  spot,  and  was  looked  up  to  as  the 
indisputable  chronicler  of  the  neighborhood.  I 
found  her  seated  in  a  little  back  parlor,  the  win 
dow  of  which  looked  out  upon  a  yard  about 
eight  feet  square,  laid  out  as  a  flower-garden ; 
while  a  glass  door  opposite  afforded  a  distant 
peep  of  the  street,  through  a  vista  of  soap  and 
tallow  candles :  the  two  views,  which  comprised, 
in  all  probability,  her  prospects  in  life,  and  the 
little  world  in  which  she  had  lived,  and  moved, 
and  had  her  being,  for  the  better  part  of  a  cen 
tury. 

To  be  versed  in  the  history  of  Eastcheap,  great 
and  little,  from  London  Stone  even  unto  the 
Monument,  was  doubtless,  in  her  opinion,  to  be 
acquainted  with  the  history  of  the  universe. 
Yet,  with  all  this,  she  possessed  the  simplicity 
of  true  wisdom,  and  that  liberal  communicative 
disposition  which  I  have  generally  remarked  in 
Intelligent  old  ladies,  knowing  in  the  concerns  of 
their  neighborhood. 

llur  information,  however,  did  not  extend  far 
back  into  antiquity.  She  could  throw  no  light 
upon  the  history  of  the  Boar's  Head,  from  tha 
lime  that  Dame  Quickly  espoused  the  valiant 
Pistol,  until  the  great  fire  of  London,  when  it 
was  unfortunately  burnt  down.  It  was  sooir 


BOAR' SHE  AD  TAVERN,  EASTCHEAP.   1G1 

rebuilt,  and  continued  to  flourish  under  the  eld 
name  and  sign,  until  a  dying  landlord,  struck 
with  remorse  for  double  scores,  bad  measures, 
and  other  iniquities,  which  are  incident  to  the 
pinful  race  of  publicans,  endeavored  to  make  his 
peace  with  heaven,  by  bequeathing  the  tavern  to 
St.  Michael's  Church,  Crooked  Lane,  towards 
the  supporting  of  a  chaplain.  For  some  time 
the  vestry  meetings  were  regularly  held  there ; 
but  it  was  observed  that  the  old  Boar  never  held 
up  his  head  under  church  government.  lie 
gradually  declined,  and  finally  gave  his  last  gasp 
about  thirty  years  since.  The  tavern  was  then 
turned  into  shops ;  but  she  informed  me  that  a 
picture  of  it  was  still  preserved  in  St.  Michael's 
Church,  which  stood  just  in  the  rear.  To  get  a 
sight  of  this  picture  was  now  my  determination ; 
so,  having  informed  myself  of  the  abode  of  tho 
sexton,  I  took  my  leave  of  the  venerable  chron 
icler  of  Eastcheap,  my  visit  having  doubtless 
raised  greatly  her  opinion  of  her  legendary  lore, 
and  furnished  an  important  incident  in  the  his^ 
tory  of  her  life. 

It  cost  me  some  difficulty,  and  much  curious 
inquiry,  to  ferret  out  the  humble  hanger-on  U 
the  church.  I  had  to  explore  Crooked  Lane 
and  divers  little  alleys,  and  elbows,  and  dark 
passages,  with  which  this  old  city  is  perforated, 
like  an  ancient  cheese,  or  a  worm-eaten  chest  of 
drawers.  At  length  I  traced  him  to  a  corner  cf 
a  small  court  surrounded  by  lofty  houses,  where 
the  inhabitants  enjoy  about  as  much  of  the  face 
of  heaven  as  a  community  of  frogs  at  the  hot/ 
torn  of  a  well. 


162  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

The  sexton  was  a  meek,  acquiescing  little  man, 
of  a  bowing,  lowly  habit ;  yet  he  had  a  pleasant 
twinkling  in  his  eye,  and,  if  encouraged,  would 
now  and  then  hazard  a  small  pleasantry ;  such  as 
a  man  of  his  low  estate  might  venture  to  make  in 
the  company  of  high  church-wardens,  and  other 
mighty  men  of  the  earth.  I  found  him  in  com 
pany  with  the  deputy  organist,  seated  apart,  like 
Milton's  angels,  discoursing,  no  doubt,  on  high 
doctrinal  points,  and  settling  the  affairs  of  the 
church  over  a  friendly  pot  of  ale,  —  for  the  lower 
classes  of  English  seldom  deliberate  on  any  weigh 
ty  matter  without  the  assistance  of  a  cool  tankard 
to  clear  their  understandings.  I  arrived  at  the 
moment  when  they  had  finished  their  ale  and  their 
argument,  and  were  about  to  repair  to  the  church 
to  put  it  in  order;  so  having  made  known  my 
wishes,  I  received  their  gracious  permission  to 
accompany  them. 

The  church  of  St.  Michael's,  Crooked  Lane, 
standing  a  short  distance  irom  Billingsgate,  is  on- 
riched  with  the  tombs  of  many  fishmongers  of 
renown ;  and  as  every  profession  has  its  galaxy 
of  glory,  and  its  constellation  of  great  men,  I  pre 
sume  the  monument  of  a  mighty  fishmonger  of 
the  olden  time  is  regarded  with  as  much  rever 
ence  by  succeeding  generations  of  the  craft,  as 
poets  feel  on  contemplating  the  tomb  of  Virgil, 
or  soldiers  the  monument  of  a  Marlborough  or 
Turcnne. 

I  cannot  but  turn  aside,  while  thus  speaking 
of  illustrious  men,  to  observe  that  St.  Michael's, 
Crooked  Lane,  contains  also  the  ashes  of  that 
doughty  champion,  William  Walworth,  knight,  who 


BOARS  HEAD  TA  VERN,  EASTCHEAP.    163 

EO  manfully  clove  down  the  sturdy  wight,  Wai 
Tyicr,  in  Smithficld  ;  a  hero  worthy  of  honorable 
blazon,  as  almost  the  only  Lord  Mayor  on  record 
(Unions  for  deeds  of  arms :  —  the  sovereigns  of 
Cockney  being  generally  renowned  as  the  most 
pacific  of  all  potentates.* 

Adjoining  the  church,  in  a,  small  cemetery,  im 
mediately  under  the  back  window  of  what  was 
once  the  Boar's  Head,  stands  the  tombstone  of 
Robert  Preston,  whilom  drawer  at  the  tavern, 
It  is  now  nearly  a  century  since  this  trusty 
drawer  of  good  liquor  closed  his  bustling  career, 
and  was  thus  quietly  deposited  within  call  of  his 
customers.  As  I  was  clearing  away  the  weeda 
from  his  epitaph,  the  little  sexton  drew  me  on  one 

*  The  following  was  the  ancient  inscription  on  the  monu 
ment  of  this  woriliy;  which,  unhappily,  was  destroy  n  in  tlia 
great  conflagration. 

u  Horcunder  lyth  a  man  of  Fame, 
"William  Wai  worth  tullvil  bv  name; 
Fishmonger  he  was  in  Jvlftime  here, 
And  twise  Lord  Maior,  as  in  books  appere 
Who,  with  courage  stout  and  manly  myglu. 
Slew  .lack  Straw  in  Kyng  Uichartf'8  sight.' 
For  which  act  done,  and  trew  entent, 
The  Kyng  made  him  knyglit  incontinent; 
And  gave  him  armes,  as  here  you  see, 
To  declare  his  fact  anil  chivaldrie. 
He  left  this  lyif  the  yere  of  our  God 
Thirteen  hundred  fourscore  and  three  odd." 

AJJ  error  in  the  foregoing  inscription  has  been  corrected  by 
tie  venerable  Stowe.  '%  \Vhereas,"  saith  he,  u  it  hath  bsfeii 
Jar  spread  abroad  by  vulgar  opinion,  that  the  rebel  smitten 
iown  so  manfully  by  Sir  William  Wai  worth,  the  tl'en  worthy 
Lord  Maior,  was  named  Jack  Straw,  and  not  Wat  Tyler,  I 
thought  good  to  reconcile  this  rash-conceived  doubt  by  such 
testimony  as  1  find  in  ancient  and  good  records.  Thr  princi 
pal  leaders,  or  captains,  of  the  commons,  were  Wat  Ty.er,  ai 
the  first  man;  the  second  was  John,  or  Jack,  Straw","  etc.. 
etc-  —  STOVK'S 


164  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

side  with  n  mysterious  air,  and  informed  me  in  a 
low  voice,  that  once  upon  a  time,  on  a  dark  win 
try  night,  when  the  wind  was  unruly,  howling, 
and  whistling,  banging  about  doors  and  windows, 
and  twirling  weathercocks,  so  that  the  living  were 
frightened  out  of  their  beds,  and  even  the  dead 
could  not  sleep  quietly  in  their  graves,  the  ghost 
of  honest  Preston,  which  happened  to  be  airing 
itself  in  the  churchyard,  was  attracted  by  the  well- 
known  call  of  "  waiter  "  from  the  Boar's  Head, 
and  made  its  sudden  appearance  in  the  midst  of 
a  roaring  club,  just  as  the  parish  clerk  was  sing 
ing  a  stave  from  the  "  mirre  garland  of  Captain 
Death";  to  the  discomfiture  of  sundry  trainband 
captains,  and  the  conversion  of  an  infidel  attorney, 
who  became  a  zealous  Christian  on  the  spot,  and 
was  never  known  to  twist  the  truth  afterwards, 
except  in  the  way  of  business. 

I  beg  it  may  be  remembered,  that  I  do  not 
pledge  myself  for  the  authenticity  of  this  anecdote 
though  it  is  well  known  that  the  churchyards  and 
by-corners  of  this  old  metropolis  are  very  much 
infested  with  perturbed  spirits ;  and  every  ono 
must  have  heard  of  the  Cock  Lane  ghost  and  the 
apparition  that  guards  the  regalia  in  the  Tower, 
which  has  frightened  so  many  bold  sentinels  al 
most  out  of  their  wits. 

Bo  all  this  as  it  may,  this  Robert  Preston 
seems  to  have  been  a  worthy  successor  to  the 
ttimble-tongned  Francis,  who  attended  upon  the 
revels  of  Prince  Hal ;  to  have  been  equally 
prompt  with  his  "anon,  anon,  sir;'*  and  to  have 
transcended  his  predecessor  in  honesty ;  for  Fal 


BOARS  HEAD  TA  VEEN,  EASTCHEAP.    165 

staff,  the  veracity  of  whose  taste  no  man  will  ven 
ture  to  impeach,  flatly  accuses  Francis  of  putting 
lime  in  his  sack  ;  whereas  honest  Preston's  epi 
taph  lands  him  for  the  sobriety  of  his  conduct, 
the  soundness  of  his  wine,  and  the  fairness  of  his 
measure.*  The  worthy  dignitaries  of  the  church, 
however,  did  not  appear  much  captivated  by  the 
sober  virtues  of  the  tapster  ;  the  deputy  organist, 
who  had  a  moist  look  out  of  the  eye,  made  some 
shrewd  remark  on  the  abstemiousness  of  a  man 
brought  up  among  full  hogsheads ;  and  the  little 
sexton  corroborated  his  opinion  by  a  significant 
wink  and  a  dubious  shake  of  the  head. 

Thus  far  my  researches,  though  they  threw 
much  light  on  the  history  of  tapsters,  fishmongers, 
and  Lord  Mayors,  yet  disappointed  me  in  the 
great  object  of  my  quest,  the  picture  of  the  Boar's 
Head  Tavern.  No  such  painting  was  to  be 
found  in  the  church  of  St.  Michael.  "  Marry  and 
amen !  "  said  I,  "  here  cndeth  my  research  !  "  So 
I  was  giving  the  matter  up,  with  the  air  of  a 
battled  antiquary,  when  my  friend  the  sexton,  per 
ceiving  me  to  be  curious  in  everything  relative  to 

*  As  this  inscription  is  rife  with  excellent  morality,  I  tran 
scribe  it  for  the  admonition  of  delinquent  tapstars.  It  is,  no 
doubt,  the  production  <>f  some  choice  spirit,  who  once  Irt- 
queuted  the  Boar's  Head. 

'•Bacchus,  to  give  the  toping  world  surprise, 
Produced  one  sober  son,  anil  here  he  lies. 
Though  rear'd  among  till!  hogshead^  he  defy'd 
The  charms  of  wine,  and  every  one  beside. 
O  reader,  if  to  justice  thou  'rt'incliiH'd, 
Keep  honest  1  Vest  on  daily  in  thy  mind. 
He  drew  good  wine,  touk'eare  to  till  his  pots, 
Had  sundry  virtues  that  excused  his  faults. 
You  that  on  Bacchus  have  the  like  dependance, 
Pray  copy  Bob  in  measure  and  attendance." 


1G6  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  old  tavern,  offered  to  show  me  the  choice 
vessels  of  the  vestry,  which  had  been  handed 
down  from  remote  times,  when  the  parish  meet 
ings  were  held  at  the  Boar's  Head.  These  were 
deposited  in  the  parish  club-room,  which  had  been 
transferred,  on  the  decline  of  the  ancient  estab 
lishment,  to  a  tavern  in  the  neighborhood. 

A  few  steps  brought  us  to  the  house,  which 
stands  No.  12  Miles  Lane,  bearing  the  title  of 
The  Mason's  Arms,  and  is  kept  by  Master  Ed 
ward  Iloncyball,  the  u  bully  rock  "  of  the  estab 
lishment.  It  is  one  of  those  little  taverns  which 
abound  in  the  heart  ©f  the  city,  and  form  the  cen 
tre  of  gossip  and  intelligence  of  the  neighborhood. 
We  entered  the  bar-room,  which  was  narrow  and 
darkling ;  for  in  these  close  lanes  but  few  rays 
of  reflected  light  are  enabled  to  struggle  down 
to  the  inhabitants,  whose  broad  day  is  at  best 
but  a  tolerable  twilight.  The  room  was  parti 
tioned  into  boxes,  each  containing  a  table  spread 
with  a  clean  white  cloth,  ready  for  dinner.  This 
showed  that  the  guests  were  of  the  good  old 
stamp,  and  divided  their  day  equally,  for  it  was 
but  just  one  o'clock.  At  the  lower  end  of  the 
room  was  a  clear  coal  fire,  before  which  a  breast 
of  lamb  was  roasting.  A  row  of  bright  brass 
candlesticks  and  pewter  mugs  glistened  along  the 
mantel-piece,  and  an  old-fashioned  clock  ticked  in 
one  corner.  There  was  something  primitive  in  this 
medley  of  kitchen,  parlor,  and  hall  that  carried  mo 
back  to  earlier  times,  and  pleased  me.  The  place, 
indeed  was  humble,  but  everything  had  that  look 
of  order  and  neatness  which  bespeaks  the  super 


SOAR'S  HEAD  TA  VERN,  EASTCHEA P.    167 

inteudeijoe  of  a  notable  English  housewife.  A 
group  of  amphibious-looking  beings,  who  might 
be  either  fishermen  or  sailors,  were  regaling 
themselves  in  one  of  the  boxes.  As  I  was  a 
visitor  of  rather  higher  pretensions,  I  was  ushered 
into  a  little  misshapen  backroom,  liaving  at  least 
nine  corners.  It  was  lighted  by  a  skylight,  fur 
nished  with  antiquated  leathern  chairs,  and  orna 
mented  with  the  portrait  of  a  fat  pig.  It  was 
evidently  appropriated  to  particular  customers, 
und  I  found  a  shabby  gentleman,  in  a  red  noso 
and  oil-cloth  hat,  seated  in  one  corner,  meditating 
on  a  half-empty  pot  of  porter. 

The  old  sexton  had  taken  the  landlady  aside, 
and  with  an  air  of  profound  importance  imparted 
to  her  my  errand.  Dame  Honey  ball  was  a  like 
ly,  plump,  bustling  little  woman,  and  no  bad  sub 
stitute  for  that  paragon  of  hostesses,  Dame  Quick 
ly.  She  seemed  delighted  with  an  opportunity 
to  oblige ;  and  hurrying  up-stairs  to  the  archives 
of  her  house,  where  the  precious  vessels  of  the 
parish  club  were  deposited,  she  returned,  smiling 
and  courtesying,  with  them  in  her  hands. 

The  first  she  presented  me  was  a  japanned 
iron  tobacco-box,  of  gigantic  size,  out  of  which,  I 
was  told,  the  vestry  had  smoked  at  their  stated 
meetings,  since  time  immemorial ;  and  which  was 
never  suffered  to  be  profaned  by  vulgar  hands,  or 
used  on  common  occasions.  I  received  it  with 
becoming  reverence  ;  but  what  was  my  delight,  at 
beholding  on  its  cover  the  identical  painting  of 
which  I.  was  in  quest!  There  Avas  displayed  the 
nitside  of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern,  and  before 


168  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  door  was  to  be  seen  the  -whole  comrhitt! 
group,  at  table,  in  full  revel ;  pictured  with  thai 
wonderful  fidelity  and  force,  with  which  the  por* 
traits  of  renowned  generals  and  commodores  are 
illustrated  on  tobacco-boxes,  for  the  benefit  of 
posterity.  Lest,  however,  there  should  be  any 
mistake,  the  cunning  limner  had  warily  inscribed 
the  names  of  Prince  Hal  and  Faistaff  on  the  bot 
toms  of  their  chairs. 

On  the  inside  of  the  cover  was  an  inscription, 
nearly  obliterated,  recording  that  this  box  was 
the  gift  of  Sir  Richard  Gore,  for  the  use  of  the 
vestry  meetings  at  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern,  and 
that  it  was  "  repaired  and  beautified  by  his  suc 
cessor,  Mr.  John  Packard,  1767."  Such  is  a 
faithful  description  of  this  august  and  venerable 
relic ;  and  I  question  whether  the  learned  Scrib 
lerius  contemplated  his  Roman  shield,  or  the 
Knights  of  the  Round  Table  the  long-sought  San- 
greal,  with  more  exultation. 

While  I  was  meditating  on  it  with  enraptured 
gaze,  Dame  Iloneyball,  who  was  highly  gratified 
by  the  interest  it  excited,  put  in  my  hands  a 
drinking-cup  or  goblet,  which  also  belonged  to  the 
vestry,  and  was  descended  from  the  old  Boar's 
Head.  It  bore  the  inscription  of  having  been  the 
gift  of  Francis  Wythers,  knight,  and  was  held} 
she  told  me,  in  exceeding  great  value,  being  con- 
uidercd  very  "  antyke."  This  last  opinion  was 
strengthened  by  the  shabby  gentleman  in  the  red 
ocse  and  oil-cloth  hat,  and  whom  I  strongly  sus 
pected  of  being  a  lineal  descendant  from  the  val« 
iant  Bardolph.  He  suddenly  roused  from  his 


SOAR'S  HEAD  TA  VEEN,  EASTCHEAP.     169 

maditation  on  the  pot  of  porter,  and,  casting  a 
knowing  look  at  the  goblet,  exclaimed,  "  Ay,  ay ! 
the  head  don't  ache  now  that  made  that  there  ar 
tide ! " 

The  great  importance  attached  to  this  mementu 
of  ancient  revelry  by  modern  church-wardens  at 
first  puzzled  me ;  but  there  is  nothing  sharpens 
the  apprehension  so  much  as  antiquarian  research; 
for  I  immediately  perceived  that  this  could  bo 
no  other  than  the  identical  "  parcel-gilt  goblet " 
on  which  Falstaff  made  his  loving  but  faithless 
vow  to  Dame  Quickly ;  and  which  would,  of 
course,  be  treasured  up  with  care  among  the  re 
galia  of  her  domains,  as  a  testimony  of  that  sol 
emn  contract.* 

Mine  hostess,  indeed,  gave  me  a  long  history 
how  the  goblet  had  been  handed  down  from  gen 
eration  to  generation.  She  also  entertained  ino 
with  many  particulars  concerning  the  worthy 
vestrymen  who  have  seated  themselves  thus 
quietly  on  the  stools  of  the  ancient  roisters  of 
Eastcheap,  and,  like  so  many  commentators,  utter 
clouds  of  smoke  in  honor  of  Shakspeare.  These 
I  forbear  to  relate,  lest  my  readers  should  not  bo 
as  curious  in  these  matters  as  myself.  Suffice  it 
to  say,  the  neighbors,  one  and  all,  about  Eastchenp, 
believe  that  Falstaff  and  his  merry  crew  actually 


*  "  Thou  didst  s\venr  to  me  upon  n  parcel-gilt  golkt,  sitting 
ra  my  Dolphin  chamber,  at  the  round  table,  by  a  sea-coal  iirOj 
on  Wednesday,  in  \Vhitsun\veek,  when  the  prince  broke  tbf 
bead  for  likening  his  father  to  a  sin^in;*  man  :;t  Wiir.lsor; 
thcu  didst  swear  to  me  then,  as  I  was  wasL  ing  thy  wound,  to 
marry  me.  and  make  me  my  ladv,  thv  wife.  Canst  lliou  deny 
it?"—  Ucnry  1  Y.  Part  2. 


170  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

lived  and  revelled  there.  Nay,  there  are  several 
legendary  anecdotes  concerning  him  still  extant 
among  the  oldest  frequenters  of  the  Mason's 
Arms,  which  they  give  as  transmitted  down  from 
their  forefathers  ;  and  Mr.  M'Kash,  an  Irish  hair 
dresser,  whose  shop  stands  on  the  site  of  the  old 
Boar's  Head,  has  several  dry  jokes  of  Fat  Jack's, 
aot  laid  down  in  the  books,  with  which  he  makes 
bis  customers  ready  to  die  of  laughter. 

I  now  turned  to  my  friend  the  sexton  to  mako 
Borne  further  inquiries,  but  I  found  him  sunk  in 
pensive  meditation.  His  head  had  declined  a 
little  on  one  side ;  a  deep  sigh  heaved  from  the 
very  bottom  of  his  stomach ;  and,  though  I  could 
not  see  a  tear  trembling  in  his  eye,  yet  a  moisture 
WAS  evidently  stealing  from  a  corner  of  his  mouth. 
I  followed  the  direction  of  his  eye  through  the 
door  which  stood  open,  and  found  it  fixed  wist 
fully  on  the  savory  breast  of  lamb,  roasting  in 
dripping  richness  before  the  fire. 

I  now  called  to  mind  that,  in  the  eagerness  of 
my  recondite  investigation,  I  was  keeping  the 
pool  man  from  his  dinner.  My  bowels  yearned 
with  sympathy,  and,  putting  in  his  hand  a  small 
token  of  my  gratitude  and  goodness,  I  departed, 
with  a  hearty  benediction  on  him,  Dame  Honey- 
ball,  and  the  Parish  Club  of  Crooked  Lai.c  ;  — 
not  forgetting  my  shabby  but  sententious  friend, 
in  the  oil-cloth  hat  and  copper  nose. 

Thus  have  I  given  a  "  tedious  brief"  account  of 
(his  interesting  research,  for  which,  if  it  prove 
too  short  and  unsatisfactory,  I  can  only  plead  my 
inexperience  in  this  branch  of  literature,  so  de- 


EOAZ'S  HEAD  TA  VEEN,  EASTCHEAP.    171 

servedly  popular  at  the  present  day.  I  am  aware 
that  a  more  skilful  illustrator  of  the  immortal 
bard  would  have  swelled  the  materials  I  have 
touched  upon  to  a  good  merchantable  bulk  ;  com 
prising  the  biographies  of  William  Walworlb, 
Jack  Straw,  and  Robert  Preston ;  some  notice  of 
the  eminent  fishmongers  of  St.  Michael's ;  the  his 
tory  of  Eastcheap,  great  and  little ;  private  anec 
dotes  of  Dame  Iloneyball,  and  her  pretty  daugh 
ter,  whom  I  have  not  even  mentioned ;  to  say 
nothing  of  a  damsel  tending  the  breast  of  lamb, 
(and  whom,  by  the  way,  I  remarked  to  be  a 
comely  lass,  with  a  neat  foot  arid  ankle ;)  —  the 
whole  enlivened  by  the  riots  of  Wat  Tyler,  and 
illuminated  by  the  great  fire  of  London. 

All  this  I  leave,  as  a  rich  mine,  to  be  worked 
by  future  commentators  ;  nor  do  I  despair  of  see 
ing  the  tobacco-box,  and  the  "  parcel-gilt  goblet," 
which  I  have  thus  brought  to  light,  the  subjects  of 
future  engravings,  and  almost  as  fruitful  of  volu 
minous  dissertations  and  disputes  as  the  shield  of 
Acliillcs,  or  the  far-famed  Portland  vase. 


THH   MUTABILITY   OF   LITERATURE. 

A  COLLOQUY  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 


I  know  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decavs, 
And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  is  brought, 
In  time's  preat  period  shall  return  to  nought. 

I  know  that  all  the  muse's  heavenly  lavs, 
With  toil  of  sprite  which  are  so  dearly  bought, 
As  idle  sounds,  of  few  or  none  are  sought, 

That  there  is  nothing  lighter  than  mere  praise. 

DKL*MMOM>  OK  HANVTIIOKNDEN. 

'HERE  are  certain  half-dreaming  moods 
of  mind,  in  which  we  naturally  steal 
away  from  noise  and  glare,  and  seek  some 
quiet  haunt,  where  we  may  indulge  our  reveries 
and  build  our  air-castles  undisturbed.  In  such  a 
mood  I  was  loitering  about  the  old  gray  cloisters 
of  Westminster  Abbey,  enjoying  that  luxury  of 
wandering  thought  which  one  is  apt  to  dignify 
with  the  name  of  reflection  ;  when  suddenly  an 
interruption  of  madcap  boys  from  West  minster 
School,  playing  at  football,  broke  in  upon  the  nw>. 
nastic  stillness  of  the  place,  making  the  vaullod 
passages  and  mouldering  tombs  echo  with  theif 
merriment.  I  sought  to  take  refuge  from  their 
noise  by  penetrating  still  deeper  into  the  solitudes 
of  the  pile,  and  applied  to  one  of  the  vergers  for 
admission  to  tho  library.  He  conducted  me 
172 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITER  A  TURE.     173 

throuirh  a  portal  rich  with  the  crumbling  sculpture 
of  foniuT  ages,  which  opened  upon  a  gloomy  pas 
sage  leading  to  the  chapter-house  and  the  chamber 
in  which  doomsday-book  is  deposited.  Just  with- 
ui  the  passage  is  a  small  door  on  the  left.  To 
this  the  verger  applied  a  key;  it  was  double 
locked,  and  opened  with  some  difficulty,  as  if  sel 
dom  used.  We  now  ascended  a  dark  narrow 
Btairrasc,  and,  passing  through  a  second  door,  en 
tered  the  library. 

I  found  myself  in  a  lofty  antique  hall,  the  roof 
supported  by  massive  joists  of  old  English  oak 
It  was  soberly  lighted  by  a  row  of  Gothic  win* 
dows  at  a  considerable  height  from  the  floor,  and 
which  apparently  opened  upon  the  roofs  of  the 
cloisters.  An  ancient  picture  of  some  reverend 
dignitary  of  the  church  in  his  robes  hung  over 
the  fireplace.  Around  the  hall  and  in  a  small 
gallery  were  the  books,  arranged  in  carved  oaken 
cases.  They  consisted  principally  of  old  polemical 
writers,  and  were  much  more  worn  by  time  than 
use.  In  the  centre  of  the  library  was  a  solitary 
table  with  two  or  three  books  on  it,  an  inkstand 
without  ink,  and  a  few  pens  parched  by  long  dis 
use.  The  place  seemed  fitted  for  quiet  study  and 
profound  meditation.  It  was  buried  deep  among 
the  massive  walls  of  the  abbey,  and  shut  up  from 
the  tumult  of  the  world.  I  could  only  hear  now 
and  then  the  shouts  of  the  school-boys  faintly 
swelling  from  the  cloisters,  and  the  sound  of  a  bell 
tolling  for  prayers,  echoing  soberly  along  the  roofs 
of  the  abbey.  By  degrees  the  shouts  of  merri 
ment  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  at  length  died 


174  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

away  ;  the  bell  ceased  to  toll,  and  a  profound  si« 
lence  reigned  through  the  dusky  hall. 

I  had  taken  down  a  little  thick  quarto,  curiously 
bound  in  parchment,  with  brass  clasps,  and  seated 
myself  at  the  table  in  a  venerable  elbow-chair. 
Instead  of  reading,  however,  I  was  beguiled  by  tha 
solemn  monastic  air,  and  lifeless  quiet  of  the  place, 
into  a  train  of  musing}^  As  I  looked  around  upon 
the  old  volumes  in  their  mouldering  covers,  thus 
ranged  on  the  shelves,  and  apparently  never  dis 
turbed  in  their  repose,  I  could  not  but  consider  the 
library  a  kind  of  literary  catacomb,  where  authors, 
like  mummies,  are  piously  entombed,  and  left  to 
blacken  and  moulder  in  dusty  oblivion,  y,, 

How  much,  thought  I,  has  each  of  these  vol 
umes,  now  thrust  aside  with  such  indifference,  cost 
some  aching  head !  how  many  weary  days !  how 
many  sleepless  nights  !  How  have  their  authors 
buried  themselves  in  the  solitude  of  cells  and  clois 
ters;  shut  themselves  up  from  the  face  of  man, 
and  the  still  more  blessed  face  of  nature  ;  and  de 
voted  themselves  to  painful  research  and  intense 
reflection !  And  all  for  what  ?  to  occupy  an  inch 
of  dusty  shelf,  —  to  have  the  title  of  their  works 
read  now  and  then  in  a  future  age,  by  some  drow- 
By  churchman  or  casual  straggler  like  myself;  and 
in  another  age  to  be  lost,  even  to  remembrance. 
Such  is  the  amount  of  this  boasted  immortality,, 
A  mere  temporary  rumor,  a  local  sound  ;  like  tho 
tone  of  that  bell  which  has  just  tolled  among  these 
towel's,  filling  the  ear  for  a  moment  —  lingering 
transiently  in  echo  —  and  then  passing  away  lika 
a  thing  that  was  not ! 


THE  M  UTABILITY  OF  LITER  A  TV  RE.     175 

While  I  sat  half  murmuring,  half  meditating 
these  unprofitable  speculations,  with  my  head  rest 
ing  on  my  hand,  I  was  thrumming  with  the  other 
hand  upon  the  quarto,  until  I  accidentally  loosen 
ed  the  clasps;  when,  to  my  utter  astonishment, 
the  little  book  gave  two  or  three  yawns,  like  ono 
awaking  from  a  deep  sleep ;  then  a  husky  hem  ; 
and  at  length  began  to  talk.  At  first  its  voice 
was  very  hoarse  and  broken,  being  much  troubled 
by  a  cobweb  which  some  studious  spider  had 
woven  across  it ;  and  having  probably  contracted 
a  cold  from  long  exposure  to  the  chills  and  damps 
of  the  abbey.  In  a  short  time,  however,  it  be 
came  more  distinct,  and  I  soon  found  it  an  ex 
ceedingly  fluent,  conversable  little  tome.  Its  lan 
guage,  to  be  sure,  was  rather  quaint  and  obsolete, 
and  its  pronunciation,  what,  in  the  present  day, 
would  be  deemed  barbarous ;  but  I  shall  endeav 
or,  as  far  as  I  am  able,  to  render  it  in  modern 
parlance. 

It  began  with  railings  about  the  neglect  of  the 
world — about  merit  being  suffered  to  languish  ia 
obscurity,  and  other  such  commonplace  topics  of 
literary  repining,  and  complained  bitterly  that  it 
had  not  been  opened  for  more  than  two  centuries. 
That  the  dean  only  looked  now  and  then  into  the 
library,  sometimes  took  down  a  volume  or  two, 
trifled  with  them  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  re 
turned  them  to  their  shelves.  "  What  a  plague 
do  they  mean,"  said  the  little  quarto,  which  I  be 
gan  to  perceive  was  somewhat  choleric,  "  what  a 
plague  do  they  mean  by  keeping  several  thousand 
volumes  of  us  shut  up  here,  and  watched  by  a  set 


17 G  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

of  old  vergers,  like  so  many  beauties  in  a  harem, 
merely  to  be  looked  at  now  and  then  by  the  dean? 
Booko  were  written  to  give  pleasure  and  to  be  en 
joyed  ;  and  1  would  have  a  rule  passed  that  the 
dean  should  pay  each  of  us  a  visit  at  least  once  «i 
year ;  or,  if  he  is  not  equal  to  the  task,  let  them 
once  in  a  while  turn  loose  the  whole  School  of 
Westminster  among  us,  that  at  any  rate  we  may 
now  and  then  have  an  airing." 

"  Softly,  my  worthy  friend,"  replied  I ;  "  you  are 
not  .aware  how  much  better  you  are  off  than  mojt 
books  of  your  generation.  By  being  stored  away 
in  this  ancient  library,  you  are  like  the  treasured 
remains  of  those  saints  and  monarchs  which  lie 
enshrined  in  the  adjoining  chapels ;  while  the  re 
mains  of  your  contemporary  mortals,  left  to  the  or 
dinary  course  of  nature,  have  long  since  returned 
to  dust." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  little  tome,  ruffling  his  leaves 
and  looking  big,  "  I  was  written  for  all  the  world, 
not  for  the  bookworms  of  an  abbey.  I  was  in 
tended  to  circulate  from  hand  to  hand,  like  other 
great  contemporary  works ;  but  here  have  I  been 
clasped  up  for  more  than  two  centuries,  and 
might  have  silently  fallen  a  prey  to  these  worms 
that  arc  playing  the  very  vengeance  with  my  in 
testines,  if  you  had  not  by  chance  given  me  an 
u)fi>o]tunity  of  uttering  a  few  last  words  before  J 
go  to  pieces." 

"  My  good  friend,"  rejoined  1,  "  had  you  been 
left  to  the  circulation  of  which  you  speak,  you 
would  long  ere  this  have  been  no  more.  To 
judge  from  your  physiognomy,  you  are  now  well 


THE  MVT ABILITY  OF  LITER  A  TUR  E.     1  TV 

stricken  in  years :  very  few  of  your  contempo 
raries  can  be  at  present  in  existence  ;  and  those 
few  owe  their  longevity  to  being  immured  like 
yourself  in  old  libraries  ;  which,  suffer  me  to  add, 
instead  of  likening  to  harems,  you  might  more 
properly  and  gratefully  have  compared  to  those 
infirmaries  attached  to  religious  establishments, 
for  the  benefit  of  the  old  and  decrepit,  "iid  where, 
by  quiet  fostering  and  no  employment,  they  often 
endure  to  an  amazingly  good-for-nothing  old  age. 
You  talk  of  your  contemporaries  as  if  in  circula 
tion, —  where  do  we  meet  with  their  works? 
What  do  we  hear  of  Robert  Groteste,  of  Lincoln  ? 
Xo  one  could  have  toiled  harder  than  he  for  im 
mortality.  He  is  said  to  have  written  nearly 
two  hundred  volumes.  He  built,  as  it  were,  a 
pyramid  of  books  to  perpetuate  his  name ;  but, 
alas  !  the  pyramid  has  long  since  fallen,  and  only 
a  few  fragments  are  scattered  in  various  libraries, 
where  they  are  scarcely  disturbed  even  by  the 
antiquarian.  What  do  we  hear  of  Giraldus 
Cambrensis,  the  historian,  antiquary,  philosopher, 
theologian,  and  poet  ?  He  declined  two  bishop 
rics,  that  he  might  shut  himself  up  and  write 
for  posterity :  but  posterity  never  inquires  after 
his  labors.  What  of  Henry  of  Huntingdon, 
who,  besides  a  learned  history  of  England,  wrote 
a  treatise  on  the  contempt  of  the  world,  which 
the  world  has  revenged  by  forgetting  him  ? 
What  is  quoted  of  Joseph  of  Exeter,  styled  the 
miracle  of  his  age  in  classical  composition  ?  Of 
his  three  great  heroic  poems  one  is  lost  forever 
excepting  a  mere  fragment ;  the  others  are  known 
12 


178  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

only  to  a  few  of  the  curious  in  literature ;  and 
as  to  his  love -verses  and  epigrams,  they  have 
entirely  disappeared.  What  is  in  current  use  of 
John  Wallis,  the  Franciscan,  who  acquired  the 
name  of  the  tree  of  life?  Of  William  of 
Malmsbury  ;  —  of  Simeon  of  Durham  ;  —  of  Bra« 
edict  of  Peterborough  ;  —  of  John  Hanvill  of  St 
Allans  ;  —  of " 

"  Prithee,  friend,"  cried  the  quarto,  in  a  testy 
tone,  "  how  old  do  you  think  me  ?  You  are  talk 
ing  of  authors  that  lived  long  before  my  time, 
and  wrote  either  in  Latin  or  French,  so  that  they 
in  a  manner  expatriated  themselves,  and  deserved 
to  be  forgotten  ;  *  but  I,  sir,  was  ushered  into  the 
world  from  the  press  of  the  renowned  Wynkyn 
de  Worde.  I  was  written  in  my  own  native 
tongue,  at  a  time  when  the  language  had  become 
fixed ;  and  indeed  I  was  considered  a  model  of 
pure  and  elegant  English." 

(I  should  observe  that  these  remarks  were 
couched  in  such  intolerably  antiquated  terms, 
that  I  have  had  infinite  difficulty  in  rendering 
them  into  modern  phraseology.) 

"I  cry  your  mercy,"  said  I,  "for  mistaking 
your  age  ;  but  it  matters  little :  almost  all  the 
writers  of  your  time  have  likewise  passed  into 
forgetfulness ;  and  De  Worde's  publications  ar« 
mere  literary  rarities  among  book-collectors.  Tha 

*  In  Latin  and  French  hath  mnny  soueraine  wittes  nad  greaJ 
delate  to  endite,  and  have  many  noble  thinges  fultildc,  bitf 
certes  there  ben  some  that  speaken  their  poisye  in  French,  of 
which  ppeche  the  Frenchmen  have  as  (rood  a  fantasye  as  wi 
have  in  hearying  of  Frenchmen's  Englishe.  —  CVtautvr'*  TV* 
lament  of  Love. 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITER  A  TV  RE.     179 

purity  and  stability  of  language,  too,  on  which 
you  found  your  claims  to  perpetuity,  have  been 
the  fallacious  dependence  of  authors  of  every 
age,  even  back  to  the  times  of  the  worthy  Robert 
of  Gloucester,  who  wrote  his  history  in  rhymes 
of  mongrel  Saxon.*  Even  now  many  talk  of 
Spenser's  'Well  of  pure  English  undeliled'  us 
if  the  language  ever  sprang  from  a  well  or  foun 
tain-head,  and  was  not  rather  a  mere  confluence 
of  various  tongues,  perpetually  subject  i^>  changes 
and  intermixtures.  It  is  this  which  has  made 
English  literature  so  extremely  mutable,  and  the  V 
reputation  built  upon  it  so  fleeting.  Unless 
thought  can  be  committed  to  something  more  per 
manent  and  unchangeable  than  such  a  medi 
um,  even  thought  must  share  the  fate  of  every 
thing  else,  and  fall  into  decay.  This  should 
serve  as  a  check  upon  the  vanity  and  exultation 
of  the  most  popular  writer.  He  finds  the  lan 
guage  in  which  he  has  embarked  his  fame  grad 
ually  altering,  and  subject  to  the  dilapidations  of 
time  and  the  caprice  of  fashion.  He  looks  back 
and  beholds  the  early  authors  of  his  country,  oi.ce 
the  favorites  of  their  day,  supplanted  by  modern 
writers.  A  few  short  ages  have  covered  them 
with  obscurity,  and  their  merits  can  only  be  rel- 

*  Ilolinshed,  in  his  Chronicle,  observes,  "  afterwards,  also, 
by  deli^-ent  travel  I  of  Geli'ry  Chaucer  ami  of  John  (.iowre,  in 
the  time  of  Ilk-hard  the  Second,  and  after  them  of  John  Soo- 
2an  and  John  hydrate,  monke  of  I'errie,  our  said  loons;  WAS 
Drought  to  an  excellent  passe,  notwithstanding  thai  it  nevei 
came  unto  the  type  of  perfection  until  the  time  of  nueen  Kliza- 
beth,  wherein  John  Jewell,  Bishop  of  Sarum,  John  Fox,  and 
gundrie  learned  and  excellent  writers,  have  fully  accomplished 
the  ornattire  of  the  same,  to  their  great  praise  mid  immortal 
commendation." 


180  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

ished  by  the  quaint  taste  of  the  bookworm 
And  such,  lie  anticipates,  will  be  the  fate  of  liia 
own  work,  which,  iiowevcr  it  may  be  admired  IL 
Us  day,  and  held  up  as  a  model  of  purity,  will  'm 
*/he  course  of  years  grow  antiquated  and  obsolete  \ 
•ami!  it  shall  become  almost  as  unintelligible  in 
its  native  land  as  an  Egyptian  obelisk,  or  ono 
of  those  Runic  inscriptions  said  to  exist  in  the 
deserts  of  Tartary.  I  declare,"  added  I,  with 
some  emotion,  "  when  I  contemplate  a  modern 
library,  filled  with  new  works,  in  all  the  bravery 
of  rich  gilding  and  binding,  I  feel  disposed  to  sit 
down  and  weep  ;  like  the  good  Xerxes,  when  ho 
surveyed  his  army,  pranked  out  in  all  the  splen 
dor  of  military  array,  and  reflected  that  in  one 
hundred  years  not  one  of  them  would  be  in 
existence  ! " 

"Ah,"  said  the  little  quarto,  with  a  heavy 
sigh,  "  I  see  how  it  is  ;  these  modern  scribblers 
have  superseded  all  the  good  old  authors.  I 
suppose  nothing  is  read  nowadays  but  Sir  Philip 
Sydney's  *  Arcadia,'  Sackville's  stately  plays,  arid 
*  Mirror  for  Magistrates,'  or  the  fine-spun  eupLu- 
isrns  of  the  'unparalleled  John  Lyly.' " 

"  There  you  are  again  mistaken,"  said  I ;  "  the 
writers  whom  you  suppose  in  vogue,  because 
(hey  hapjTened  to  be  so  when  you  were  last  ia 
circulation,  have  long  since  had  their  day.  Sir 
rinlip  Sydney's  *  Arcadia,'  the  immortality  of 
which  was  so  fondly  predicted  by  his  admirers,* 

*  Live  ever  swoete  booke;  the  simple  image  of  his  gentla 
wilt,  and  tiie  gulden -pi  liar  of  his  noble  courage;  and  evei 
notify  unto  the  world  that  thy  writer  was  the  secretary  of  elo 
quence,  the  breath  of  the  muses,  the  honey-bee  of  the  dainty* 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITER  A  TURE.    1 8  J 

and  which,  in  truth,  is  full  of  noble  thoughts, 
delicate  images,  and  graceful  turns  of  language, 
is  now  scarcely  ever  mentioned.  Sackville  has 
strutted  into  obscurity ;  and  even  Lyly,  though 
his  writings  were  once  the  delight  of  a  court, 
and  apparently  perpetuated  by  a  proverb,  is  now 
scarcely  known  even  by  name.  A  whole  crowd 
of  authors  who  wrote  and  wrangled  at  the  time, 
have  likewise  gone  down,  with  all  their  writings 
and  their  controversies.  Wave  after  wave  of 
succeeding  literature  has  rolled  over  them,  until 
they  are  buried  so  deep,  that  it  is  only  now 
and  then  that  some  industrious  diver  after  frag 
ments  of  antiquity  brings  up  a  specimen  for  the 
gratification  of  the  curious. 

"  For  my  part,"  I  continued,  u  I  consider  this 
mutability  of  language  a  wise  precaution  of  Provi 
dence  for  the  benefit  of  the  world  at  large,  and  of  % 
authors  in  particular.  To  reason  from  analogy, 
we  daily  behold  the  varied  and  beautiful  tribes  of 
vegetables  springing  up,  flourishing,  adorning  the 
fields  for  a  short  time,  and  then  fading  into  dust, 
to  make  way  for  their  successors.  .Were  not  this 
the  case,  the  fecundity  of  nature  would  be  a  griev 
ance  instead  of  a  blessing.  The  earth  would 
groan  with  rank  and  excessive  vegetation,  and  its 
surface  become  a  tangled  wilderness.**  In  like 
manner  the  works  of  genius  and  learning  decline, 
find  make  way  for  subsequent  productions.  V  Lan 
guage  gradually  varies,  and  with  it  fade  away  the 

est  Hewers  of  witt  and  arte,  the  pith  of  morale  and  intellectual 
virtues,  the  arnie  of  Belloiuv  in  the  lield,  the  tonge  of  Suada 
in  the  chamber,  the  sprite  of  Practise  in  esse,  and  the  paragon 
af  excellency  iu  print. — Harvey  Picrce's 


182  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

writings  of  authors  who  have  flourished  theii 
allotted  time ;  otherwise,  the  creative  powers  of 
genius  would  overstock  the  world,  and  the  mind 
would  be  completely  bewildered  in  the  endless 
mazes  of  literature.  Formerly  there  were  some 
restraints  on  this  excessive  multiplication.  Works 
had  to  be  transcribed  by  hand,  which  was  a  slow 
and  laborious  operation ;  they  were  written  either 
on  parchment,  which  was  expensive,  so  that  one 
work  was  often  erased  to  make  way  for  another ; 
or  on  papyrus,  which  was  fragile  and  extremely 
perishable.  Authorship  was  a  limited  and  un 
profitable  craft,  pursued  chiefly  by  monks  in  the 
leisure  and  solitude  of  their  cloisters.  The  accu 
mulation  of  manuscripts  was  slow  and  costly,  and 
confined  almost  entirely  to  monasteries.  To  these 
circumstances  it  may,  in  some  measure,  be  owing 
that  we  have  not  been  inundated  by  the  intellect 
of  antiquity ;  that  the  fountains  of  thought  have 
not  been  broken  up,  and  modern  genius  drowned 
in  the  deluge.  But  the  inventions  of  paper  and 
tlie  press  have  put  an  end  to  all  these  restraints. 
They  have  made  every  one  a  writer,  and  enabled 
every  mind  to  pour  itself  into  print,  and  diffuse 
itself  over  the  whole  intellectual  world.  The 
consequences  are  alarming.  The  stream  of  liter- 
eture  has  swollen  into  a  torrent  —  augmented  into 
a  river  —  expanded  into  a  sea.  A  few  centuries 
since,  five  or  six  hundred  manuscripts  constituted 
8  great  library  ;  but  what  would  you  say  to  libra 
ries  such  as  actually  exist  containing  three  or  four 
hundred  thousand  volumes ;  legions  of  authors  at 
the  same  time  busy;  and  the  press  going  on  with 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITER  A  TURE.     1 83 

Activity,  to  double  and  quadruple  the  numT>er: 
Unless  some  unforeseen  mortality  should  break  out 
among  the  progeny  of  the  muse,  now  that  she  ha<* 
become  so  prolific,  I  tremble  for  posterity.  I  iea? 
the  mere  fluctuation  of  language  will  not  be  suf 
ficient.  Criticism  may  do  much.  It  increases 
with  the  increase  of  literature,  and  resembles  one 
of  those  salutary  checks  on  population  spoken  of 
by  economists.  All  possible  encouragement,  there 
fore,  should  be  given  to  the  growth  of  critics, 
good  or  bad.  But  I  fear  all  will  be  in  vain ;  let 
criticism  do  what  it  may,  writers  will  write,  print 
ers  will  print,  and  the  world  will  inevitably  be 
overstocked  with  good  books.  It  will  soon  be 
the  employment  of  a  lifetime  merely  to  learn  their 
names.  Many  a  man  of  passable  information.,  at 
the  present  day,  reads  scarcely  anything  but  re 
views  ;  and  before  long  a  man  of  erudition  will 
be  little  better  than  a  mere  walking  catalog  ic." 

"  My  very  good  sir,"  said  the  little  qua  "to, 
yawning  most  drearily  in  my  face,  '••  excuse  my 
interrupting  you,  but  I  perceive  you  are  rather 
priven  to  prose.  I  would  ask  the  fate  of  an  au 
thor  who  was  making  some  noise  just  as  I  left 
the  world.  His  reputation,  however,  was  consid 
ered  quite  temporary.  The  learned  shook  their 
heads  at  him,  for  he  was  a  poor  half-educated 
varlet,  that  knew  little  of  Latin,  and  nothing  of 
Greek,  and  had  been  obliged  to  run  the  country 
for  deer-stealing.  I  think  his  name  was  Shaks- 
peare.  I  presume  he  soon  sunk  into  oblivion." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  I,  "  it  is  owing  to  thai 
very  man  that  the  literature  of  his  period  has  ex- 


184  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

perienced  a  duration  beyond  the  ordinary  term  of 
English  literature.  There  rise  authors  now  and 
then,  who  seem  proof  against  the  mutability  of 
language,  because  they  have  rooted  themselves 
in  the  unchanging  principles  of  human  nature. 
They  are  like  gigantic  trees  that  we  sometimes 
see  on  the  banks  of  a  stream  ;  which,  by  their 
vast  and  deep  roots,  penetrating  through  the  mere 
surface,  and  laying  hold  on  the  very  foundations 
of  the  earth,  preserve  the  soil  around  them  from 
being  swept  away  by  the  ever-flowing  current, 
and  hold  up  many  a  neighboring  plant,  and,  per 
haps,  worthless  weed,  to  perpetuity.  Such  is  tho 
case  with  Shakspeare,  whom  we  behold  defying 
the  encroachments  of  time,  retaining  in  modern 
use  the  language  and  literature  of  his  day,  and 
giving  duration  to  many  an  indifferent  author, 
merely  from  having  flourished  in  his  vicinity. 
But  even  he,  I  grieve  to  say,  is  gradually  assum 
ing  the  tint  of  age,  and  his  whole  form  is  overrun 
by  a  profusion  of  commentators,  who,  like  clam 
bering  vines  and  creepers,  almost  bury  the  noble 
plant  that  upholds  them." 

Here  the  little  quarto  began  to  heave  his  sides 
and  chuckle,  until  at  length  he  broke  out  in  a  ple 
thoric  fit  of'  laughter  that  had  welhiigh  chokecj 
him,  by  reason  of  his  excessive  corpulency. 
"  Mighty  well ! "  cried  he,  as  soon  as  he  could  re 
cover  breach,  "  mjghty  well !  and  so  you  would 
persuade  me  that  the  literature  of  an  age  is  to  ba 
perpetuated  by  a  vagabond  deer-stealer !  by  a 
man  without  learning  ;  by  a  poet,  forsooth  —  a 
poet .  "  And  here  he  wheezed  forth  another  fil 
of  laughter. 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITEliA  TURE.     1 85 

I  confess  that  I  felt  somewhat  nettled  at  this 
rudeness,  which,  however,  I  pardoned  on  account 
of  his  having  flourished  in  a  less  polished  age.  1 
determined,  nevertheless,  not  to  give  up  my  point. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  I,  positively,  "  a  poet ;  for  of 
all  writers  he  has  the  best  chance  for  immortality. 
Otners  may  write  from  the  head,  but  he  writes 
fi'om  the  heart,  and  the  heart  will  always  under 
stand  him.  lie  is  the  faithful  portrayer  of  nature, 
whose  features  are  always  the  same,  and  always 
interesting.  Prose  -  writers  are  voluminous  and 
unwieldy  ;  their  pages  are  crowded  with  common 
places,  and  their  thoughts  expanded  into  tedious- 
ness.  But  with  the  true  poet  everything  is  terse, 
touching,  or  brilliant.  lie  gives  the  choicest 
thoughts  in  the  choicest  language.  He  illustrates 
them  by  everything  that  he  sees  most  striking  in 
nature  and  art.  He  enriches  them  by  pictures  of 
human  life,  such  as  it  is  passing  before  him.  His 
writings,  therefore,  contain  the  spirit,  the  aroma, 
if  I  may  use  the  phrase,  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lives.  They  are  caskets  which  enclose  within  a 
small  compass  the  wealth  of  the  language,  —  its 
family  jewels,  which  are  thus  transmitted  in  a 
portable  form  to  posterity.  The  setting  may  oc 
casionally  be  antiquated,  and  require  now  and 
then  to  be  renewed,  as  in  the  case  of  Chaucer ; 
but  the  brilliancy  and  intrinsic  value  of  the  gems 
continue  unaltered.  Cast  a  look  back  over  the 
long  reach  of  literary  history.  What  vast  valleys 
of  dulncss,  filled  with  monkish  legends  and  aca 
demical  controversies !  what  bogs  of  theological 
peculations  !  what  dreary  wastes  of  metaphysics 


186  THE  SKETCH-BOOS, 

Here  and  there  only  do  we  behold  the  heaven* 
illuminated  bards,  elevated  like  beacons  on  theii 
widely  separate  heights,  to  transmit  the  pure  light 
of  poetical  intelligence  from  age  to  age."  * 

I  was  just  about  to  launch  forth  into  eulogiums 
upon  the  poets  of  the  day,  when  the  sudden  open 
ing  of  the  door  caused  me  to  turn  my  head.  It 
was  the  verger,  who  came  to  inform  me  that  it 
was  time  to  close  the  library.  I  sought  to  have 
a  parting  word  with  the  quarto,  but  the  worthy 
little  tome  was  silent ;  the  clasps  were  closed ; 
and  it  looked  perfectly  unconscious  of  all  that  had 
passed.  I  have  been  to  the  library  two  or  three 
times  since,  and  have  endeavored  to  draw  it  into 
further  conversation,  but  in  vain  ;  and  whether  all 
this  rambling  colloquy  actually  took  place,  or 
whether  it  was  another  of  those  odd  day-dreams 
to  which  I  am  subject,  I  have  never  to  this  mo- 
laent  been  able  to  discover. 

*  Tliorow  earth  and  waters  deepe, 

The  pen  by  skill  doth  passe: 
And  foully  nyps  the  worldes  abuse, 

And  shoes  us  in  a  glasse, 
The  vert u  and  the  vice 

Of  every  wi^ht  alyve; 
The  honey  comb  that  bee  doth  make 

Is  not  so  sweet  in  hyve, 
As  are  the  gold.in  leves 

That  drop  from  poet's  head! 
Whkh  doth  surmount  our  common  talko 

As  fkrre  as  dross  d<  Ui  lead. 

Churchyard. 


RURAL   FUNERALS. 


Sere's  n  few  flowers!  but  about  mirln  ght  mere: 
The  hcrlts  that,  have  on  them  cold  dew  o'  the  night 

Are  strewing  iitt'st  for  graves 

You  were  as  flower?  now  wither'd;  even  so 
These  herbleta  shall,  which  we  upon  you  strow. 

CYMBELINE. 

,MONG  the  beautiful  and  simple-hearted 
customs  of  rural  life  which  still  linger 
in  some  parts  of  England,  are  those  of 
strewing  flowers  before  the  funerals,  and  planting 
them  at  the  graves  of  departed  friends.  These, 
it  is  said,  are  the  remains  of  some  of  the  rites  of 
the  primitive  church  ;  but  they  are  of  still  higher 
antiquity,  having  been  observed  among  the  Greeks 
and  Romans,  and  frequently  mentioned  by  their 
writers,  and  were,  no  doubt,  the  spontaneous  trib 
utes  of  unlettered  affection,  originating  long  be 
fore  art  had  tasked  itself  to  modulate  sorrow  into 
song,  or  story  it  on  the  monument.  They  are  now 
only  to  be  met  with  in  the  most  distant  and  retired 
places  of  the  kingdom,  where  fashion  and  innova 
tion  have  not  been  able  to  throng  in,  and  trample 
ant  all  the  curious  and  interesting  traces  of  the 
olden  time. 

In  Glamorganshire,  we  are  told,  the  bed  where 
on  the  corpse  lies  is  covered  with  flowers,  a 

187 


_88  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

torn  alluded  to  in  one  of  the  wild  and  plaintive 
ditties  of  Ophelia. 

White  his  shroud  as  the  mountain  snow 

Larded  all  with  sweet  flowers; 
Which  he-wept  to  the  grave  did  go, 

With  true  love  showers. 

There  is  also  a  most  delicate  and  beautiful  rite 
observed  in  some  of  the  remote  villages  of  the 
pouth,  at  the  funeral  of  a  female  who  has  died 
young  and  unmarried.  A  ehaplet  of  white  flowers 
is  borne  before  the  corpse  by  a  young  girl  near 
est  in  age,  size,  and  resemblance,  and  is  afterwards 
hung  up  in  the  church  over  the  accustomed  seat 
of  the  deceased.  These  chaplets  are  sometimes 
made  of  white  paper,  in  imitation  of  flowers,  and 
inside  of  them  is  generally  a  pair  of  white  gloves. 
They  are  intended  as  emblems  of  the  purity  of 
the  deceased,  and  the  crown  of  glory  which  sho 
has  received  in  heaven. 

In  some  parts  of  the  country,  also>  the  dead 
are  carried  to  Ihe  grave  with  the  pinging  of 
psalms  and  hymns  :  a  kind  of  triumph,  "  to  show," 
says  Bourne,  "  that  they  have  finished  their  course 
with  joy,  and  are  become  conquerors."  This,  I 
ara  informed,  is  observed  in  some  of  the  northern 
counties,  particularly  in  Northumberland  ;  and  it 
has  a  pleasing,  though  melancholy  effect,  to  hear, 
of  a  still  evening,  in  some  lonely  country  scene 
the  mournful  melody  of  a  funeral  dirge  swelling 
from  a  distance,  arid  to  see  the  train  slowly  rn,>v 
fofi$  along  the  landscape. 

Thus,  thus,  and  thus,  we  compass  round 
Thy  harmlesse  and  iiiihaunted  ground, 
And  as  we  sing  thv  dirge,  we  will 

The  daffodill 

And  other  flowers  lay  upon 
Tho  altar  cf  our  love,  thy  stone.  — 


RURAL  FUNERALS.  189 

There  is  also  a  solemn  respect  paid  by  the 
traveller  to  the  passing  funeral  in  these  seques 
tered  plaees ;  for  such  spectacles,  occurring  among 
the  quiet  abodes  of  nature,  sink  deep  into  the 
soul.  As  the  mourning  train  approaches,  he 
pauses,  uncovered,  to  let  it  go  by ;  he  then  fol 
lows  silently  in  the  rear ;  sometimes  quite  to  the 
grave,  at  other  times  for  a  few  hundred  yards, 
and,  having  paid  this  tribute  of  respect  to  the 
deceased,  turns  and  resumes  his  journey. 

The  rich  vein  of  melancholy  which  runs 
through  the  English  character,  and  gives  it  some 
of  its  most  touching  and  ennobling  graces,  is 
finely  evidenced  in  these  pathetic  customs,  and  in 
the  solicitude  shown  by  the  common  people  for 
an  honored  and  a  peaceful  grave.  The  humblest 
peasant,  whatever  may  be  his  lowly  lot  while  liv 
ing,  is  anxious  that  some  little  respect  may  be 
paid  to  his  remains.  Sir  Thomas  Overbury,  de 
scribing  the  "  faire  and  happy  milkmaid,"  observes, 
"  thus  lives  she,  and  all  her  care  is,  that  she  may 
die  in  the  spring-time,  to  have  store  of  flowers 
Btucke  upon  her  winding-sheet."  The  poets,  too, 
who  always  breathe  the  feeling  of  a  nation,  con* 
tiuually  advert  to  this  fond  solicitude  about  the 
grave.  In  "  The  Maid's  Tragedy,"  by  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  there  is  a  beautiful  instance  Q£  the 
kind,  describing  the  capricious  melancholy  cf  0 
broken-hearted  girL 

When  she  sees  a  bank 

Stuck  full  of  flowers,  she,  with  a  <si«rh,  will  tell 
Her  servants,  what  a  prettv  place  it  \vere 
To  burv  lovers  in ;  and  make  her  maid? 
Pluck  '"em,  aud  strew  her  over  like  a  corse. 


190  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

The  custom  of  decorating  graves  was  once 
versally  prevalent :  osiers  -were  carefully 
over  them  to  keep  the  turf  uninjured,  and  about 
them  were  planted  evergreens  and  ilowcrs.  "  We 
adorn  their  graves,"  says  Evelyn,  in  his  "  Sylva," 
"  with  flowers  and  redolent  plants,  just  emblems 
of  Ihe  life  of  man,  which  has  been  compared  in 
Holy  Scriptures  to  those  fading  beauties  whoso 
roots  being  buried  in  dishonor,  rise  again  in  glo 
ry."  This  usage  has  now  become  extremely  rare 
in  England ;  but  it  may  still  be  met  with  in  the 
churchyards  of  retired  villages,  among  the  Welsh 
mountains ;  and  I  recollect  an  instance  of  it  at 
the  small  town  of  Rut  hen,  which  lies  at  the  head 
of  the  beautiful  vale  of  Clewyd.  I  have  been  told 
also  by  a  friend,  who  was  present  at  the  funeral  of 
a  young  girl  in  Glamorganshire,  that  the  female 
attendants  had  their  aprons  full  of  flowers,  which, 
as  soon  as  the  body  was  interred,  they  stuck  about 
the  grave. 

He  noticed  several  graves  which  had  been  dec 
orated  in  the  same  manner.  As  the  flowers  had 
been  merely  stuck  in  the  ground,  and  not  plant 
ed,  they  had  soon  withered,  and  might  be  seen 
in  various  states  of  decay  ;  some  drooping,  others 
quite  perished.  They  were  afterwards  to  be  sup- 
planted  by  holly,  rosemary,  and  other  evergreens , 
which  on  some  graves  had  grown  to  great  liixuri" 
auce,  and  overshadowed  the  tombstones. 

There  was  formerly  a  melancholy  fanciful  ness 
in  the  arrangement  of  these  rustic  offerings,  that 
bad-something  in  it  truly  poetical.  The  rose  waa 
sometimes  blended  with  the  lily,  to  form  a  general 


RURAL  FUNERALS.  191 

emblem  of  frail  mortality.  "  This  sweet  flower,*1 
said  Evelyn,  "  borne  on  a  branch  set  with  thorns, 
and  accompanied  with  the  lily,  are  natural  hiero 
glyphics  of  our  fugitive,  umbratile,  anxious,  and 
transitory  life,  which,  making  so  fair  a  show  lor  a 
time,  is  not  yet  without  its  thorns  and  crosses." 
The  nature  and  color  of  the  flowers,  and  of  the 
ribbons  with  which  they  were  tied,  had  often  a 
particular  reference  to  the  qualities  or  story  of 
the  deceased,  or  were  expressive  of  the  feelings 
of  the  mourner.  In  an  old  poem,  entitled  "  Cory- 
don's  Doleful  Knell,"  a  lover  specifies  the  decora- 
'ions  he  intends  to  use  :  — 

A  garland  shall  be  framed 

by  art  and  nature's  skill, 
Of  sundry-colored  flowers, 

In  token  of  good-will. 

And  sundry-color'd  ribands 

On  it  I  will  bestow; 
But  chiefly  blacke  and  yellowe 

With  her  to  grave  shall  go. 

I  '11  deck  her  tomb  with  flowers, 

The  rarest  ever  seen ; 
And  with  my  tears,  as  showers, 

I  '11  keep  them  fresh  and  green. 

The  white  rose,  we  are  told,  was  planted  at 
ihe  grave  of  a  virgin  ;  her  chaplet.  was  tied  with 
white  ribbons,  in  token  of  her  spotless  innocence  ; 
though  sometimes  black  ribbons  were  intermingled, 
,o  bespeak  the  grief  of  the  survivors.  The  red  rose 
was  occasionally  used  in  remembrance  of  such  as 
had  been  remarkable  for  benevolence ;  but  roses 
in  general  were  appropriated  to  the  graves  of  lov 
ers  Evelyn  tells  us  that  the  custom  was  ncl 


192  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

altogether  extinct  in  his  time,  near  his  dwelling 
in  the  county  of  Surrey,  "  where  the  maidens 
yearly  planted  and  decked  the  graves  of  their 
defunct  sweethearts  with  rose-bushes."  And  Cam- 
den  likewise  remarks,  in  his  "  Britannia  "  :  "  Here 
is  also  a  certain  custom,  observed  time  out  of 
mind,  of  planting  rose-trees  upon  the  graves,  es 
pecially  by  the  young  men  and  maids  who  have 
lost  their  loves ;  so  that  this  churchyard  is  now 
full  of  them." 

When  the  deceased  had  been  unhappy  in  their 
loves,  emblems  of  a  more  gloomy  character  were 
used,  such  as  the  yew  and  cypress ;  and  if  flow 
ers  were  strewn,  they  were  of  the  most  melan 
choly  colors.  Thus,  in  poems  by  Thomas  Stan 
ley,  Esq.  (published  in  1G51),  is  the  following 
stanza. 

Yet  strew 

Upon  my  dismall  grave 
Such  offerings  as  you  have, 

Forsaken  cypresse  and  sad  ycwe; 
For  kinder  flowers  can  take  no  oirth 
Or  growth  from  such  unhappy  earth. 

Li  "The  Maid's  Tragedy,"  a  pathetic  little 
air  is  introduced,  illustrative  of  this  mode  of  dec- 
oiating  the  funerals  of  females  who  had  been  did" 
appointed  in  love. 

Lay  a  gnrland  on  my  hearse, 

Of  the  dismall  yew, 
Maidens,  willow  branches  Trear 

Say  I  died  true. 

My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  fina, 

From  my  hour  of  birth, 
Upon  my  buried  body  lie 

Lightly,  gentle  earth. 


RURAL  FUNERALS.  193 

The  natural  effect  of  sorrow  over  the  dead  is 
to  refine  and  elevate  the  mind ;  and  we  have  a 
proof  of  it  in  the  purity  of  sentiment  and  the 
unaffected  elegance  of  thought  which  pervaded 
the  whole  of  these  funeral  observances.  Thus, 
it  was  an  especial  precaution  that  none  but  sweet- 
scented  evergreens  and  flowers  should  be  en> 
ployed.  The  intention  seems  to  have  been  to 
soften  the  horrors  of  the  tomb,  to  beguile  the  mind 
from  brooding  over  the  disgraces  of  perishing 
mortality,  and  to  associate  the  memory  of  the  de 
ceased  with  the  most  delicate  and  beautiful  ob 
jects  in  nature.  There  is  a  dismal  process  going 
on  in  the  grave,  ere  dust  can  return  to  its  kindred 
dust,  which  the  imagination  shrinks  from  contem 
plating  ;  and  we  seek  still  to  think  of  the  form 
we  have  loved,  with  tho^e  refined  associations 
which  it  awakened  when  blooming  before  us  in 
youth  and  beauty.  "  Lay  her  i'  the  earth,"  says 
Laertes,  of  his  virgin  sister, 

And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 
May  violets  spring ! 

Herrick,  also,  in  his  "  Dirge  of  Jephtha,"  pours 
forth  a  fragrant  flow  of  poetical  thought  and  im- 
pge,  which  in  a  manner  embalms  the  dead  in  the 
recollections  of  the  living. 

Sleep  in  thy  j>eace,  thy  bed  of  spice, 

And  make  this  place  all  Paradise: 

May  sweets  grow  here !  and  smoke  from  hence 

Fat  frankincense. 

Let  balme  and  cassia  sent  their  scent 
From  out  thy  maiden  monument. 


May  all  slue  maids  at  wonted  hours 

Come  forth  to  strew  thy  tombe  with  flower*! 


194  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

May  virgins,  when  they  come  to  mourn, 

Male  incense  bum 
Upon  thine  altar!  then  return 
And  leave  thee  sleeping  in  thine  urn. 

I  might  crowd  my  pages  with  extracts  from 
the  older  British  poets  who  wrote  when  these  rites 
were  more  prevalent,  and  delighted  frequently  to 
allude  to  them ;  but  I  have  already  quoted  more 
than  is  necessary.  I  cannot  however  refrain 
from  giving  a  passage  from  Shakspeare,  even 
though  it  should  appear  trite  ;  which  illustrates 
the  emblematical  meaning  often  conveyed  in  these 
floral  tributes,  and  at  the  same  time  possesses  that 
magic  of  language  and  appositeness  of  imagery  for 
which  he  stands  preeminent. 

With  fairest  flowers, 

"Whilst  summer  lasts,  and  I  live  her",  Fidele, 
I  '11  sweeten  thy  sad  grive;  thou  slmlt  not  lack 
The  flower  that  *s  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose;  nor 
The  azured  harebell,  like  thy  veins;  no,  nor 
The  leaf  of  eglantine;  whom  not  to  slander, 
.    Outsweeten'd  not  thy  breath. 

There  is  certainly  something  more  affecting  ia 
these  prompt  and  spontaneous  offerings  of  nature 
than  in  the  most  costly  monuments  of  art,  the 
hand  strews  the  flower  while  the  heart  is  ^arm, 
and  the  tear  falls  on  the  grave  as  affection  13 
binding  the  osier  round  the  sod ;  but  pathos  ex 
pires  under  the  slow  labor  of  the  chisel,  and  is 
chilled  among  the  cold  conceits  of  sculptured 
marble. 

It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  a  custom  so 
truly  elegant  and  touching  has  disappeared  from 
general  use,  and  exists  only  in  the  most  remote 
•oil  insignificant  villages.  But  it  seems  as  if 


RURAL  FUNERALS.  195 

poetical  custom  always  shims  the  walks  of  culti 
vated  society.  In  proportion  as  people  grow  polite, 
they  cease  to  be  poetical.  They  talk  of  poetry 
but  they  have  learnt  to  check  its  free  impulses, 
to  distrust  its  sallying  emotions,  and  to  supply  its 
most  affecting  and  picturesque  usages,  by  studied 
form  and  pompous  ceremonial.  Few  pageants 
can  be  more  stately  and  frigid  than  an  English 
funeral  in  town.  It  is  made  up  of  show  and 
gloomy  parade ;  mourning  carriages,  mourning 
horses,  mourning  plumes,  and  hireling  mourners, 
who  make  a  mockery  of  grief.  "  There  is  a  grave 
digged,"  says  Jeremy  Taylor,  "and  a  solemn 
mourning,  and  a  great  talk  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  when  the  daies  are  finished,  they  shall  be, 
and  they  shall  be  remembered  no  more."  The 
associate  in  the  gay  and  crowded  city  is  soon  for 
gotten  ;  the  hurrying  succession  of  new  intimates 
and  new  pleasures  effaces  him  from  our  minds, 
and  the  very  scenes  and  circles  in  which  he  moved 
are  incessantly  fluctuating.  But  funerals  in  the 
country  arc  solemnly  impressive.  The  stroke  of 
deatli  makes  a  wider  space  in  the  village  circle, 
and  is  an  awful  event  in  the  tranquil  uniformity  of 
niral  life.  The  passing  bell  tolls  its  knell  in  every 
ear  ;  it  steals  with  its  pervading  melancholy  over 
hill  and  vale,  and  saddens  all  the  landscape. 

The  fixed  and  unchanging  features  of  the 
tountry  also  perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  friend 
with  whom  we  once  enjoyed  them  ;  who  was  tho 
companion  of  our  most  retired  walks,  and  gave 
animation  to  every  lonely  scene.  His  idea  is 
associated  with  every  charm  of  nature  ;  we  hear 


196  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

his  voice  in  the  eclio  which  he  once  delighted  to 
awaken  ,•  his  spirit  haunts  the  grove  which  he 
once  frequented ;  we  think  of  him  in  the  TV  ild 
upland  solitude,  or  amidst  the  pensive  beauty  of 
the  valley.  In  the  freshness  of  joyous  morning, 
we  remember  his  beaming  smiles  and  bounding 
gayety ;  and  when  sober  evening  returns  with 
its  gathering  shadows  and  subduing  quiet,  we 
call  to  mind  many  a  twilight  hour  of  gentle  talk 
and  swect-souled  melancholy. 

Each  lonely  place  shall  him  restore, 

For  him  the  tear  be  dulv  shed; 
Beloved,  till  life  can  charm  no  more; 

And  mourn'd  till  pity's  self  be  dead. 

Another  cause  that  perpetuates  the  memory 
of  the  deceased  in  the  country  is  that  the  grave 
is  more  immediately  in  sight  of  the  survivors. 
They  pass  it  on  their  way  to  prayer;  it  meets 
their  eyes  when  their  hearts  are  softened  by  the 
exercises  of  devotion  ;  they  linger  about  it  on 
the  Sabbath,  when  the  mind  is  disengaged  from 
worldly  cares,  and  most  disposed  to  turn  aside 
from  present  pleasures  and  present  loves,  and  to 
eit  down  among  the  solemn  mementos  of  the  past, 
In  North  Wales  the  peasantry  kneel  and  pray 
over  the  graves  of  their  deceased  friends,  for 
several  Sundays  after  the  interment ;  and  where 
the  tender  rite  of  strewing  and  planting  flowers 
is  still  practised,  it  is  always  renewed  on  Easter, 
Whitsuntide,  and  other  festivals,  when  the  season 
brings  the  companion  of  former  festivity  more 
vividly  tc  mind.  It  is  also  invariably  performed 
by  the  nearest  relatives  and  friends ;  no  menials 


RURAL  FUNERALS.  1\)1 

nor  liirelings  are  employed ;  and  if  a  neighboi 
yields  assistance,  it  would  be  deemed  an  insult 
to  offer  compensation. 

I  have  dwelt  upon  this  beautiful  rural  custom, 
because,  as  it  is  one  of  the  last,  so  is  it  one  of 
the  holiest  offices  of  love.  The  grave  is  the 
ordeal  of  true  affection.  It  is  there  that  the 
divine  passion  of  the  soul  manifests  its  superiority 
to  the  instinctive  impulse  of  mere  animal  attach 
ment.  The  latter  must  be  continually  refreshed 
and  kept  alive  by  the  presence  of  its  object ;  but 
the  love  that  is  seated  in  the  soul  can  live  on 
long  remembrance.  The  mere  inclinations  of 
sense  languish  and  decline  with  the  charms 
which  excited  them,  and  turn  with  shuddering 
disgust  from  the  dismal  precincts  of  the  tomb ; 
but  it  is  thence  that  truly  spiritual  affection  rises, 
purified  from  rvcry  sensual  desire,  and  returns, 
like  a  holy  flame,  to  illumine  and  sanctify  the 
heart  of  the  survivor. 

The  sorrow  for  the  dead  is  the  only  sorrow 
from  which  we  refuse  to  be  divorced.  Every 
other  wound  we  seek  to  heal  —  every  other  afflic 
tion  to  forget ;  but  this  wound  we  consider  it  a 
duty  to  keep  open  —  this  affliction  we  cherish  and 
brood  over  in  solitude.  Where  is  the  mother 
who 'would  willingly  forget  the  infant  that  per 
ished  like  a  blossom  from  her  arms,  though  every 
-ecollection  is  a  pang?  Where  is  the  child  that 
would  willingly  forget  the  most  tender  of  par 
ents,  though  to  remember  be  but  to  lament! 
Wl  o,  even  in  the  hour  of  agony,  would  forget 
the  friend  over  whom  he  mourns  ?  Who,  even 


198  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

when  Hie  tomb  is  closing  upon  the  remains  of 
her  he  most  loved,  when  he  feels  his  heart,  as 
it  were,  crushed  in  the  closing  of  its  portal, 
would  accept  of  consolation  that  must  be  bought 
by  forgetfulness  ?  No,  the  love  which  survives 
the  tomb  is  one  of  the  noblest  attributes  of  the 
soul.  If  it  has  its  woes,  it  has  likewise  its  de 
lights  ;  and  when  the  overwhelming  burst  of 
grief  is  calmed  into  the  gentle  tear  of  recollec 
tion,  when  the  sudden  anguish  and  the  convul 
sive  agony  over  the  present  ruins  of  all  that  we 
most  loved  is  softened  away  into  pensive  medita 
tion  on  all  that  it  was  in  the  days  of  its  loveli 
ness, —  who  would  root  out  such  a  sorrow  from 
the  heart  ?  Though  it  may  sometimes  throw  a 
passing  cloud  over  the  bright  hour  of  gayety,  or 
spread  a  deeper  sadness  over  the  hour  of  gloom, 
yet  who  would  exchange  it  even  for  the  song  of 
pleasure,  or  the  burst  of  revelry  ?  No,  there  is  a 
voice  from  the  tomb  sweeter  than  song.  There 
is  a  remembrance  of  the  dead  to  which  we  turn 
even  from  the  charms  of  the  living.  Oh,  the 
grave !  —  the  grave !  —  It  buries  every  error  — 
covers  every  defect  —  extinguishes  every  resent 
ment  !  From  its  peaceful  bosom  spring  none  but 
fond  regrets  and  tender  recollections.  Who  can 
look  down  upon  the  grave  even  of  an  enemyj  and 
act  feel  a  compunctious  throb,  that  he  should  ever 
have  warred  with  the  poor  handful  of  earth  that 
jies  mouldering  before  him. 

But  the  grave  of  those  we  loved  —  what  a 
place  for  meditation!  There  it  is  that  we  call 
up  in  long  review  the  whole  history  of  virtue 


HVRAL  FUNERALS.  199 

«nd  gentleness,  and  the  thousand  enaearmenta 
lavished  upon  us  almost  unheeded  in  the  daily 
intercourse  of  intimacy,  —  there  it  is  that  we 
dwell  upon  the  tenderness,  the  solemn,  awful  ten 
derness,  of  the  parting  scene.  Th«,  bed  of  death, 
with  all  its  stifled  griefs  —  its  noiseless  attendance 

—  its  mute,  watchful  assiduities.     The  last  testi 
monies  of  expiring  love !     The  feeble,  fluttering, 
thrilling  —  oh !  how  thrilling !  —  pressure  of  the 
hand  !     The  faint,  faltering  accents,  struggling  iu 
death  to  give  one  more  assurance  of  affection! 
The  last  fond   look  of  the  glazing    eye,  turned 
upon  us  even  from  the  threshold  of  existence  ! 

Ay,  go  to  the  grave  of  buried  love,  and  medi 
tate  !  There  settle  the  account  with  thy  con 
science  for  every  past  benefit  unrequited  —  every 
past  endearment  unregarded,  of  that  depaited 
being  who  can  never  —  never  —  never  retura  to 
bo  soothed  by  thy  contrition  ! 

If  thou  art  a  child,  and  hast  ever  added  a 
sorrow  to  the  soul,  or  a  furrow  to  the  silvered 
brow  of  an  affectionate  parent,  —  if  thou  art  a 
husband,  and  hast  ever  caused  the  fond  bosom 
that  ventured  its  whole  happiness  in  thy  arms  to 
doubt  one  moment  of  thy  kindness  or  thy  truth, 

—  if  thou  art  a  friend,  and  hast  ever  wronged,  in 
thought,  or  word,  or  deed,  the  spirit  that  gener 
ously  confided  in  thee,  —  if  thou  art  a  lover,  and 
hast  ever  given  one  unmerited  pang  to  that  true 
hcait  which  now  lies  cold  and  still  beneath  thy 
feet,  —  then  be   sure    that    every   unkind   look, 
every   ungracious    word,  every  ungentle  action, 
will  come  thronging  back  upon  thy  memory,  and 


200  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

knocking  dolefully  at  thy  soul, — then  be  suns 
that  thou  wilt  lie  down  sorrowing  and  repentant 
on  the  grave,  and  utter  the  unheard  groan,  and 
pour  the  unavailing  tear ;  more  deep,  more  bitter, 
because  unheard  and  unavailing. 

Then  weave  thy  chaplet  of  flowers,  and  strew 
the  beauties  of  nature  about  the  grave  ;  console 
thy  broken  spirit,  if  thou  canst,  with  these  tender 
yet  futile  tributes  of  regret ;  but  take  warning  by 
the  bitterness  of  this  thy  contrite  affliction  over 
the  dead,  and  henceforth  be  more  faithful  and  af 
fectionate  iii  the  discharge  of  thy  duties  to  the 
living. 


In  writing  the  preceding  article,  it  was  not  in 
tended  to  give  a  full  detail  of  the  funeral  customs 
of  the  English  peasantry,  but  merely  to  furnish  a 
few  hints  and  quotations  illustrative  of  particular 
rites,  to  be  appended,  by  way  of  note,  to  another 
paper,  which  has  been  withheld.  The  article 
swelled  insensibly  into  its  present  form,  and  this 
is  mentioned  as  an  apology  for  so  brief  and  casual 
a  notice  of  these  usages,  after  they  have  been  am 
ply  and  learnedly  investigated  in  other  works. 

I  must  observe,  also,  that  I  am  well  aware  that 
this  custom  of  adorning  graves  with  flowers  pre« 
rails  in  other  countries  besides  England.  Indeed, 
In  some  it  is  much  more  general,  and  is  observed 
even  by  the  rich  and  fashionable ;  but  it  is  then 
apt  to  lose  its  simplicity,  and  to  degenerate  into 
affectation.  Bright,  in  his  Travels  in  Lower  Hun 
gary,  tells  of  monuments  of  marble,  and  recesses 


RURAL  FUNERALS.  201 

formed  for  retirement,  with  seats  placed  among 
Dowers  of  greenhouse  plants ;  and  that  the  graves 
generally  are  covered  with  the  gayest  flowers  of. 
the  season.  He  gives  a  casual  picture  of  filial 
piety,  which  I  cannot  but  transcribe;  for  I  trust 
it  is  as  useful  as  it  is  delightful  to  illustrate  the 
amiable  virtues  of  the  sex.  "  When  I  was  at 
Berlin,"  says  he,  "I  followed  the  celebrated 
IIHand  to  the  grave.  Mingled  with  some  pomp, 
you  might  trace  much  real  feeling.  In  the  midst 
of  the  ceremony,  my  attention  was  attracted  by  a 
young  woman,  who  stood  on  a  mound  of  earth, 
newly  covered  with  turf,  which  she  anxiously  pro 
tected  from  the  feet  of  the  passing  crowd.  It 
was  the  tomb  of  her  parent ;  and  the  figure  of 
this  affectionate  daughter  presented  a  monument 
more  striking  than  the  most  costly  work  of  art." 

I  will  barely  add  an  instance  of  sepulchral  dec 
oration  that  I  once  met  with  among  the  moun 
tains  of  Switzerland.  It  was  at  the  village  of 
Gersau,  which  stands  on  the  borders  of  the  Lake 
of  Lucerne,  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Rigi.  It  was 
once  the  capital  of  a  miniature  republic,  shut  up 
between  the  Alps  and  the  Lake,  and  accessible 
on  the  land-side  only  by  footpaths.  The  whole 
force  of  the  republic  did  not  exceed  six  hundred 
fighting-men ;  and  a  few  miles  of  circumference, 
scooped  out  as  it  were  from  the  bosom  of  tho 
mountains,  comprised  its  territory.  The  village 
of  Gersau  seemed  separated  from  the  rest  of  the 
world,  and  retained  the  golden  simplicity  of  Q 
purer  age.  -  It  had  a  small  church,  with  a  bury* 
Ing-ground  adjoining.  At  the  heads  of  the  grave? 


202  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

were  placed  crosses  of  wood  or  iron.  On  soma 
were  affixed  miniatures,  rudely  executed,  but 
evidently  attempts  at  likenesses  of  the  deceased. 
On  the  crosses  were  hung  chaplets  of  flowers, 
some  withering,  others  fresh,  as  if  occasionally  re 
newed.  I  paused  with  interest  at  this  scene ;  1 
felt  that  I  was  at  the  source  of  poetical  descrip 
tion,  for  these  were  the  beautiful  but  unaffected 
offerings  of  the  heart  which  poets  are  fain  to 
record.  In  a  gayer  and  more  populous  place,  I 
should  have  suspected  them  to  have  been  sug 
gested  by  factitious  sentiment,  derived  from  books  ; 
but  the  good  people  of  Gersau  knew  little  of 
books  i  there  was  not  a  novel  nor  a  love-poem  in 
the  village ;  and  I  question  whether  any  peasant 
of  the  place  dreamt,  while  he  was  twining  a  fresh 
ohaplet  for  the  grave  of  his  mistress,  that  he  was 
fulfilling  one  of  the  most  fanciful  rites  of  poeti 
cal  devotion,  and  that  he  was  practically  a  poet. 


THE  INN  KITCHEN. 


Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn  ? 

FALSTAFP. 

[URING  a  journey  that  I  once  made 
through  the  Netherlands,  I  had  arrived 
one  evening  at  the  Pomme  cTOr,  the  prin 
cipal  inn  of  a  small  Flemish  village.  It  was 
after  the  hour  of  the  table  d'hote,  so  that  I  was 
obliged  to  make  a  solitary  supper  from,  the  relics 
of  its  ampler  board.  The  weather  was  chilly ;  I 
was  seated  alone  in  one  end  of  a  great  gloomy 
dining-room,  and,  my  repast  being  over,  I  had  the 
prospect  before  me  of  a  long  dull  evening,  without 
any  visible  means  of  enlivening  it.  I  summoned 
mine  host,  and  requested  something  to  read ;  he 
brought  me  the  whole  literary  stock  of  his  house 
hold,  a  Dutch  family  Bible,  an  almanac  in  the 
same  language,  and  a  number  of  old  Paris  news 
papers.  As  I  sat  dozing  over  one  of  the  latter, 
reading  old  and  stale  criticisms,  my  ear  was  now 
and  then  struck  with  bursts  of  laughter  which 
seemed  to  proceed  from  the  kitchen.  Every  one 
that  has  travelled  on  the  continent  must  know  how 
favorite  a  resort  the  kitchen  of  a  country  inn  is  to 
the  middle  and  inferior  order  of  travellers ;  par 
ticularly  in  that  (/quivocal  kind  of  weather,  when 

203 


204  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

a  fire  becomes  agreeable  toward  evening.  I 
threw  aside  the  newspaper,  and  explored  my  way 
to  the  kitchen,  to  take  a  peep  at  the  group  that 
appeared  to  be  so  merry.  It  was  composed  part 
ly  of  travellers  who  had  arrived  some  hours  before 
in  a  diligence,  and  partly  of  the  usual  attendants 
and  hangers-on  of  inns.  They  were  seated  round 
ft  great  burnished  stove,  that  might  have  been 
mistaken  for  an  altar,  at  which  they  were  wor 
shipping.  It  was  covered  with  various  kitchen 
vessels  of  resplendent  brightness ;  among  which 
steamed  and  hissed  a  huge  copper  tea-kettle.  A 
large  lamp  threw  a  strong  mass  of  light  upon  the 
group,  bringing  out  many  odd  features  in  strong 
relief.  Its  yellow  rays  partially  illumined  the  spa 
cious  kitchen,  dying  duskily  away  into  remote  cor 
ners,  except  where  they  settled  in  mellow  radi 
ance  on  the  broad  side  of  a  flitch  of  bacon,  or 
were  reflected  back  from  well-scoured  utensils, 
that  gleamed  from  the  midst  of  obscurity.  A 
strapping  Flemish  lass,  with  long  golden  pendants 
in  her  cars,  and  a  necklace  with  a  golden  heart 
suspended  to  it,  was  the  presiding  priestess  of  the 
temple. 

Many  of  the  company  were  furnished  with 
pipes,  and  most  of  them  with  some  kind  of  even 
ing  potation.  I  found  their  mirth  was  occasioned 
by  anecdotes,  •which  a,  little  swarthy  Frenchman, 
with  a  dry  weazen  face  and  large  whiskers,  was 
giving  of  his  love  adventures;  at  the  end  of  each 
of  which  there  was  one  of  those  bursts  of  honest 
unceremonious  laughter,  in  which  a  man  indulges 
in  that  temple  of  true  liberty,  an  inn. 


THE  INN  KITCHEN.  205 

As  I  had  no  better  mode  of  getting  through  a 
teilious  blustering  evening,  I  took  my  seat  near 
the  stovo,  and  listened  to  a  variety  of  traveller's 
tales,  some  very  extravagant,  and  most  very  dull. 
All  of  them,  however,  have  faded  from  my  treach 
erous  memory  except  one,  which  I  will  endeavor 
to  relate.  I  fear,  however,  it  derived  its  chief 
zest  from  the  manner  in  which  it  was  told,  and 
the  peculiar  air  and  appearance  of  the  narrator. 
He  was  a  corpulent  old  Swiss,  who  had  the  look 
of  a  veteran  traveller.  He  was  dressed  in  a  tar 
nished  green  travelling-jacket,  with  a  broad  belt 
round  his  waist,  and  a  pair  of  overalls,  with  but 
tons  from  the  hips  to  the  ankles.  He  was  of  a 
full,  rubicund  countenance,  with  a  double  chin, 
aquiline  nose,  and  a  pleasant,  twinkling  eye.  His 
hair  was  light,  and  curled  from  under  an  old 
green  velvet  travelling-cap  stuck  on  one  side  of 
his  head.  He  was  interrupted  more  than  once 
by  the  arrival  of  guests,  or  the  remarks  of  his 
auditors  ;  and  paused  now  and  then  to  replenish 
his  pipe ;  at  which  times  he  had  generally  a 
roguish  leer,  and  a  sly  joke  for  the  buxom  kitch 
en-maid. 

I  wish  my  readers  could  imagine  the  old  fellow 
lolling  in  a  huge  arm-chair,  one  arm  akimbo,  the 
other  holding  a  curiously  twisted  tobacco  pipe, 
foi  med  of  genuine  ecume  de  mer,  decorated  with 
silver  chain  and  silken  tassel, — his  head  cocked  on 
one  side,  and  a  whimsical  cut  of  the  eye  occasion 
ally,  as  he  related  the  following  story. 


THE   SPECTRE   1RIDEGROOM. 

A  TRAVELLER'S  TALE.* 


He  that  supper  for  is  (light, 
He  lyes  full  cold,  I  trow,  this  night! 
Yestreen  to  chamber  I  him  led, 
This  night  Gray- Steel  has  made  his  bed. 
Silt  EG  EK,  "Sin  GIIAIIAMK,  AND  Sm 

N  the  summit  of  one  of  the  heights  of  the 
Odenwald,  a  wild  and  romantic  tract  of 
Upper  Germany,  that  lies  not  far  from 
the  confluence  of  the  Main  and  the  Rhine,  there 
stood,  many,  many  years  since,  the  Castle  of  the 
Baron  Von  Landshort.  It  is  now  quite  fallen  to 
decay,  and  almost  buried  among  beech-trees  and 
dark  firs ;  above  which,  however,  its  old  watch- 
tower  may  still  be  seen,  struggling,  like  the  former 
possessor  I  have  mentioned,  to  carry  a  high  head, 
od  look  down  upon  the  neighboring  country. 

The  baron  was  a  dry  brunch  of  the  great  family 
of  Ivatzcnellenbogen,t  ftud  inherited  the  relics  of 
the  property,  and  all  the  pride  of  his  ancestors, 

*  The  erudite  reader,  well  versed  in  good-for-nothing  lore, 
will  perceive  that  the  above  Tale  must  have  been  suggootea 
to  the  old  Swiss  by  a  little  French  anecdote,  a  circumstance 
%  laid  to  have  taken  place  at  Paris. 

t  •/.  e.  CAT'S-ELUO\V.    The  name  of  a  f?mily  of  those  parts 

very  powerful  in  former  times.     The  appellation,  we  a-<»  told, 

was  given  in  compliment  to  a  peerless  dame  oC 

celebrated  for  her  line  arm. 

206 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  207 

Though  the  warlike  disposition  of  his  predecessors 
had  much  impaired  the  family  possessions,  yet  the 
baron  still  endeavored  to  keep  up  some  show  of 
former  state.  The  times  were  peaceable,  and  the 
German  nobles,  in  general,  had  abandoned  their 
inconvenient  old  castles,  perched  like  eagles'  nc?ts 
among  the  mountains,  and  had  built  more  conven 
ient  residences  in  the  valleys  :  still  the  baron  re 
mained  proudly  drawn  up  in  his  little  fortress, 
cherishing,  with  hereditary  inveteracy,  all  the  old 
family  feuds  ;  so  that  he  was  on  ill  terms  with  some 
of  his  nearest  neighbors,  on  account  of  dispute: 
that  had  happened  between  their  great-great-grand 
fathers. 

The  baron  had  but  one  child,  a  daughter  ;  but 
nature,  when  she  grants  but  one  child,  always 
compensates  by  making  it  a  prodigy ;  and  so  it 
was  with  the  daughter  of  the  baron.  All  the 
nurses,  gossips,  and  country  cousins  assured  her 
father  that  she  had  not  her  equal  for  beauty  in  all 
Germany ;  and  who  should  know  better  than 
they  ?  She  had,  moreover,  been  brought  up  with 
great  care  under  the  superintendence  of  two  maid 
en  aunts,  who  had  spent  some  years  of  their  early 
life  at  one  of  the  little  German  courts,  and  were 
skilled  in  all  the  branches  c  f  knowledge  necessary 
to  the  education  of  a  fine  lady.  Under  their  in 
structions  she  became  a  miracle  of  accomplish 
ments.  By  the  time  she  was  eighteen,  she  could 
embroider  to  admiration,  and  had  worked  whole 
histories  of  the  saints  in  tapestry,  with  such 
strength  of  expression  in  their  countenances,  that 
they  looked  like  so  many  souls  in  purgatory 


208  THE  SKETCH-LbOK. 

She  could  read  without  great  difficulty,  and  had 
spelled  her  way  through  several  church  legends, 
and  almost  all  the  cliivalri-3  wonders  of  the  Hel- 
denlmch,  She  had  even  made  considerable  pro 
ficiency  in  writing;  could  sign  her  own  iiama 
without  missing  a  letter,  and  so  legibly,  that  her 
aunts  could  read  it  without  spectacles.  She  ex 
celled  in  making  little  elegant  good-for-nothing 
lady-like  knickknacks  of  all  kinds ;  was  versed  in 
the  most  abstruse  dancing  of  the  day ;  played  a 
number  of  airs  on  the  harp  and  guitar ;  and 
knew  all  the  tender  ballads  of  the  Minnelieders 
by  heart. 

Her  aunts,  too,  having  been  great  flirts  and  co 
quettes  in  their  younger  days,  were  admirably  cal 
culated  to  be  vigilant  guardians  and  strict  censors 
of  the  conduct  of  their  niece  ;  for  there  is  no  du 
enna  so  rigidly  prudent,  and  inexorably  decorous, 
as  a  superannuated  coquette.  She  was  rarely  suf 
fered  out  of  their  sight ;  never  went  beyond  the 
domains  of  the  castle,  unless  well  attended,  or  rath 
er  well  watched  ;  had  continual  lectures  read  to 
her  about  strict  decorum  and  implicit  obedience ; 
and,  as  to  the  men  —  pah  !  —  she  was  taught  to 
Void  them  at  such  a  distance,  and  in  such  absolute 
uisliust,  that,  unless  properly  authorized,  she 
would  not  have  cast  a  glance  upon  the  handsom* 
tst  cavalier  in  the  world  —  no,  not  if  he  were  e\en 
dying  at  her  feet. 

The  good  effects  of  this  system  were  wonder 
fully  apparent.  The  young  lady  was  a  pattern 
of  docility  and  correctness.  While  others  were 
wasting  tl>eir  sweetness  in  the  glare  of  the  world. 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  209 

and  liable  (o  be  plucked  and  thrown  aside  by 
every  hand,  she  was  coyly  blooming  into  fresh  and 
lovely  womanhood  under  the  protection  of  those 
immaculate  spinsters  like  a  rose-bud  blushing  forth 
among  guardian  thorns.  Her  aunts  looked  upon 
her  with  pride  and  exultation,  arid  vaunted  that 
though  all  the  other  young  ladies  in  the  world 
might  go  astray,  yet,  thank  Heaven,  nothing  of 
the  kind  could  happen  to  the  heiress  of  Katzen- 
ellenbogen. 

But,  however  scantily  the  Baron  Von  Land- 
short  might  be  provided  with  children,  his  house 
hold  was  by  no  means  a  small  one ;  for  Provi 
dence  had  enriched  him  with  abundance  of  poor 
relations.  They,  one  and  all,  possessed  the  affec 
tionate  disposition  common  to  humble  relatives  ; 
were  wonderfully  attached  to  the  baron,  and  took 
every  possible  occasion  to  come  in  swarms  and 
enliven  the  castle.  All  family  festivals  were  com 
memorated  by  these  good  people  at  the  baron's 
expense  ;  and  when  they  were  filled  with  good 
cheer,  they  would  declare  that  there  was  notliing 
on  earth  so  delightful  as  these  family  meetings, 
these  jubilees  of  the  heart. 

The  baron,  though  a  small  man,  had  a  largo 
soul,  and  it  swelled  with  satisfaction  at  the  con 
sciousness  of  being  the  greatest  man  in  the  little 
world  about  him.  He  loved  to  tell  long  stories 
about  the  dark  old  warriors  whose  portraits  looked 
grimly  down  from  the  walls  around,  and  he  found 
no  listeners  equal  to  those  who  fed  at  his  expense. 
He  was  much  given  to  the  marvellous,  and  a  firm 
believer  in  all  those  supernatural  tales  with  which 
14 


210  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

every  m  nmtain  and  valley  in  Germany  abounds. 
The  faith  of  his  guests  exceeded  even  his  own 
they  listened  to  every  tale  of  wonder  with  open 
eyes  and  mouth,  and  never  failed  to  be  aston 
ished,  even  though  repeated  for  the  hundredth 
time.  Thus  lived  the  Baron  Von  Landshort,  the 
oracle  of  his  table,  the  absolute  monarch  of  his 
little  territory,  and  happy,  above  all  things,  in  tho 
persuasion  that  he  was  the  wisest  man  of  the  age. 

At  the  time  of  which  my  story  treats,  there 
was  a  great  family-gathering  at  the  castle,  on  an 
affair  of  the  utmost  importance :  it  was  to  receive 
the  destined  bridegroom  of  the  baron's  daughter. 
A  negotiation  had  been  carried  on  between  the 
father  and  an  old  nobleman  of  Bavaria,  to  linite 
the  dignity  of  their  houses  by  the  marriage  of 
their  children.  The  preliminaries  had  been  con 
ducted  with  proper  punctilio.  The  young  people 
were  betrothed  without  seeing  each  other  ;  and 
the  time  was  appointed  for  the  marriage  ceremony. 
The  young  Count  Von  Altenburg  had  been  re 
called  from  the  army  for  the  purpose,  and  was 
actually  on  his  way  to  the  baron's  to  receive  hia 
bride.  Missives  had  even  been  received  from 
him,  from  Wiirtzburg,  where  he  was  accidentally 
detained,  mentioning  the  day  and  hour  when  ho 
might  be  expected  to  arrive. 

The  castle  was  in  a  tumult  of  preparation  to 
give  him  a  suitable  welcome.  The  fair  bride 
had  been  decked  out  with  uncommon  care.  The 
two  aunts  had  superintended  her  toilet,  and  quar 
relled  the  whole  morning  about  every  article  of 
her  dress.  The  young  lady  had  taken  advantage 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.          211 

of  their  contest  to  follow  the  bent  of  her  own 
taste :  and  fortunately  it  was  a  good  one.  She 
looked  as  lovely  as  youthful  bridegroom  could 
desire ;  and  the  flutter  of  expectation  heightened 
the  lustre  of  her  charms. 

The  suffusions  that  mantled  her  face  and  neck, 
the  gentle  heaving  of  the  bosom,  the  eye  now 
and  then  lost  in  reverie,  all  betrayed  the  soft  tu- 
nlult  that  was  going  on  in  her  little  heart.  The 
aunts  were  continually  hovering  around  her ;  for 
maiden  aunts  are  apt  to  take  great  interest  in 
affairs  of  this  nature.  They  were  giving  her  a 
world  of  staid  counsel  how  to  deport  herself,  what 
to  say,  and  in  what  manner  to  receive  the  ex 
pected  lover. 

The  baron  was  no  less  busied  in  preparations. 
He  had,  in  truth,  nothing  exactly  to  do ;  but  he 
was  naturally  a  fuming,  bustling  little  man,  and 
could  not  remain  passive  when  all  the  world  was 
In  a  hurry.  He  worried  from  top  to  bottom  of 
the  castle  .with  an  air  of  infinite  anxiety  ;  he 
continually  called  the  servants  from  their  work 
to  exhort  them  to  be  diligent ;  and  buzzed  about 
every  hall  and  chamber,  as  idly  restless  and  im 
portunate  as  a  blue-bottle  fly  on  a  warm  sum 
mer's  day. 

In  the  mean  time  the  fatted  calf  had  been  killed ; 
the  forests  had  rung  with  the  clamor  of  the  hunts 
men  ;  the  kitchen  was  crowded  with  good  cheer  j 
the  cellars  had  yielded  up  whole  oceans  of  Illtcm* 
weir,  and  Ferne-ivein  ;  and  even  the  great  lleidel« 
berg  tun  had  been  laid  under  contribution.  Ev 
erything  was  ready  to  receive  the  distinguished 


212  T£TE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

pnest  with  Saus  und  Brans  in  the  true  spirit  ci 
German  h  >spitality  ;  —  but  the  guest  delayed  to 
make  his  appearance.  Hour  rolled  after  hour. 
The  sun,  that  had  poured  his  downward  ray? 
upon  the  rich  forest  of  the  Odenwald,  now  just 
gleamed  along  the  summits  of  the  mountains. 
The  baron  mounted  the  highest  tower,  and  strained 
his  eyes  in  hope  of  catching  a  distant  sight  of  the 
count  and  his  attendants.  Once  he  thought  he 
beheld  them  ;  the  sound  of  horns  came  floating 
from  the  valley,  prolonged  by  the  mountain  ech 
oes.  A  number  of  horsemen  were  seen  far  be 
low,  slowly  advancing  along  the  road  ;  but  when 
they  had  nearly  reached  the  foot  of  the  mountain, 
they  suddenly  struck  off  in  a  different  direction. 
The  last  ray  of  sunshine  departed,  —  the  bats 
began  to  flit  by  in  the  twilight,  —  the  road  grew 
dimmer  and  dimmer  to  the  view,  and  nothing 
appeared  stirring  in  it  but  now  and  then  a  peas 
ant  lagging  homeward  from  his  labor. 

While  the  old  castle  of  Landshort. was  in  this 
state  of  perplexity,  a  very  interesting  scene  was 
transacting  in  a  different  part  of  the  Odenwald. 

The  young  Count  Yon  Altenburg  was  tran 
quilly  pursuing  his  route  in  that  sober  jog- trot 
way,  in  which  a  man  travels  toward  matrimony 
when  his  friends  have  taken  all  the  trouble  and 
mcertainty  of  courtship  oif  his  hands,  and  a 
bride  is  waiting  for  him,  as  certainly  as  a  dinner 
Rt  the  end  of  his  journey.  He  had  encountered 
Rt  AVlirtzburg  a  youthful  companion  in  arms, 
with  whom  he  had  seen  some  service  on  the  fron 
tiers, —  Herman  Von  Starkenfaust,  one  of  tha 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.         215 

stoutest  hands  and  worthiest  hearts  of  German 
chivalry,  who  was  now  returning  from  the  army. 
His  father's  castle  was  not  far  distant  from  the 
old  fortress  of  Laudshort,  although  an  hereditary 
feud  rendered  the  families  hostile,  and  strangera 
to  each  other. 

In  the  warm-hearted  moment  of  recognition; 
the  young  friends  related  all  their  past  adventures 
aud  fortunes,  and  the  count  gave  the  whole  his 
tory  of  his  intended  nuptials  with  a  young  lady 
whom  he  had  never  seen,  but  of  whose  charms 
he  had  received  the  most  enrapturing  descriptions. 

As  the  route  of  the  friends  lay  in  the  same 
direction,  they  agreed  to  perform  the  rest  of  their 
journey  together  ;  and,  that  they  might  do  it  the 
more  leisurely,  set  off  from  Wiirtzburg  at  an 
early  hour,  the  count  having  given  directions  for 
his  retinue  to  follow  and  overtake  him. 

They  beguiled  their  wayfaring  with  recollec 
tions  of  their  military  scenes  and  adventures  ;  but 
the  count  was  apt  to  be  a  little  tedious,  now  and 
then,  about  the  reputed  charms  of  his  bride,  and 
the  felicity  that  awaited  him. 

In  this  way  they  had  entered  among  the  moun 
tains  of  the  Odenwald,  and  were  traversing  one 
of  its  most  lonely  and  thickly-wooded  passes.  It 
is  well  known  that  the  forests  of  Germany  havo 
always  been  as  much  infested  by  robbers  as  ita 
eastles  by  spectres  ;  and,  at  this  time,  the  former 
were  particularly  numerous,  from  the  hordes  of 
iisbanded  soldiers  wandering  about  the  country. 
It  will  not  appear  extraordinary,  therefore,  that 
the  cavaliers  were  attacked  by  a  gang  of  thesn 


214  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

stragglers,  in  the  midst  of  the  forest.  They  de» 
fended  themselves  with  bravery,  but  were  nearly 
overpowered,  when  the  count's  retinue  arrived  Lo 
their  assistance.  At  sight  of  them  the  robbers 
fled,  but  not  until  the  count  had  received  a  mor« 
tal  wound.  He  was  slowly  and  carefully  con 
veyed  back  to  the  city  of  Wiirtzburg,  and  a  friar 
summoned  from  a  neighboring  convent,  who  was 
famous  for  his  skill  in  administering  to  both  soul 
and  body ;  but  half  of  his  skill  was  superfluous  ; 
the  moments  of  the  unfortunate  count  were  num 
bered. 

With  his  dying  breath  he  entreated  his  friend 
to  repair  instantly  to  the  castle  of  Landshort,  and 
explain  the  fatal  cause  of  his  not  keeping  his  ap 
pointment  with  his  bride.  Though  not  the  most 
ardent  of  lovers,  he  was  one  of  the  most  punctil 
ious  of  men,  and  appeared  earnestly  solicitous  that 
his  mission  should  be  speedily  and  courteously 
executed.  "  Unless  tliis  is  done,"  said  he,  "  I 
shall  not  sleep  quietly  in  my  grave  !  "  He 
repeated  these  last  words  with  peculiar  solem 
nity.  A  request,  at  a  moment  so  impressive, 
admitted  no  hesitation.  Starkenfaust  endeavored 
to  soothe  him  to  calmness  ;  promised  faithfully  to 
execute  his  wish,  and  gave  him  his  hand  in  sol 
emn  pledge.  The  dying  man  pressed  it  in  ac 
knowledgment,  but  soon  lapsed  into  delirium  — 
raved  about  his  bride  —  his  engagements  —  his 
plighted  word  ;  ordered  his  horse,  that  he  might 
ride  to  the  castle  of  Landshort ;  and  expired  in 
the  fancied  act  of  vaulting  into  tho  saddle. 

Starkenfaust  bestowed  a  sigb  and  a  soldier'i 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  215 

tear  on  the  untimely  fate  of  his  comrade ;  and 
then  pondered  on  the  awkward  mission  he  had 
undertaken.  His  heart  was  heavy,  and  his  head 
perplexed  ;  for  he  was  to  present  himself  an  un 
bidden  guest  among  hostile  people,  and  to  damp 
their  festivity  with  tidings  fatal  to  their  hopes. 
Still  there  were  certain  whisperings  of  curiosity 
in  his  bosom  to  see  this  far-famed  beauty  of 
Katzenellenbogen,  so  cautiously  shut  up  from  the 
world  ;  for  he  was  a  passionate  admirer  of  the 
Bex,  and  there  was  a  dash  of  eccentricity  and 
enterprise  in  his  character  that  made  him  fond  of 
all  singular  adventure. 

Previous  to  his  departure  he  made  all  due  ar 
rangements  with  the  holy  fraternity  of  the  con 
vent  for  the  funeral  solemnities  of  his  friend, 
who  was  to  be  buried  in  the  cathedral  of  Wiirtz- 
burg,  near  some  of  his  illustrious  relatives  ;  and 
the  mourning  retinue  of  the  count  took  charge 
of  his  remains. 

It  is  now  high  time  that  we  should  return  to 
the  ancient  family  of  Katzenellenbogen,  who 
were  impatient  for  their  guest,  and  still  more  for 
their  dinner ;  and  to  the  worthy  little  baron, 
whom  we  left  airing  himself  on  the  watch-tower. 

Night  closed  in,  but  still  no  guest  arrived. 
The  baron  descended  from  the  tower  in  despair 
The  banquet,  which  had  been  delayed  from  hour 
to  hour,  could  no  longer  be  postponed.  The 
meats  were  already  overdone ;  the  cook  in  aij 
agony  ;  and  the  whole  household  had  the  look  of 
a  garrison  that  had  been  reduced  by  famina 
The  baron  was  obliged  reluctantly  to  give  orders 


216  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

for  the  feast  without  the  presence  of  the  guest 
All  were  seated  at  table,  and  just  on  the  point 
of  commencing,  when  the  sound  of  a  horn  from 
without  the  gate  gave  notice  of  the  approach  of 
a  stranger.  Another  long  blast  filled  the  old 
courts  of  the  castle  with  its  echoes,  and  was  an 
swered  by  the  warder  from  the  walls.  Tko 
baron  hastened  to  receive  his  future  son-in-law. 

The  drawbridge  had  been  let  down,  and  the 
stranger  was  before  the  gate,  lie  was  a  tall, 
gallant  cavalier,  mounted  on  a  black  steed.  His 
countenance  was  pale,  but  he  had  a  beaming,  ro 
mantic  eye,  and  an  air  of  stately  melancholy. 
The  baron  was  a  little  mortified  that  he  should 
have  come  in  this  simple,  solitary  style.  His 
dignity  for  a  moment  was  ruffled,  and  he  felt  dis 
posed  to  consider  it  a  want  of  proper  respect  for 
the  important  occasion,  and  the  important  family 
with  which  he  was  to  be  connected.  He  pacified 
himself,  however,  with  the  conclusion,  that  it 
must  have  been  youthful  impatience  which  had 
induced  him  thus  to  spur  on  sooner  than  his 
attendants. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  the  stranger,  "  to  break  in 
upon  you  thus  unseasonably  " 

Here  the  baron  interrupted  him  with  a  world 
of  compliments  and  greetings  ;  for,  to  tell  the 
truth,  he  prided  himself  upon  his  courtesy  and 
eloquence.  The  stranger  attempted,  once  o? 
twice,  to  stem  the  torrent  of  words,  but  in  vain 
60  he  bowed  his  head  and  suffered  it  to  flow  on 
By  the  time  the  baron  had  come  to  a  pause,  they 
had  reached  the  inner  court  of  the  castle ;  and 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGR  0  OM.  217 

the  stranger  was  again  about  to  speak,  when  he 
was  once  more  interrupted,  by  the  appearance  of 
the  female  part  of  the  family,  leading  forth  the 
shrinking  and  blushing  bride,  lie  gazed  on  her 
for  a  moment  as  one  entranced  ;  it  seemed  as  if 
his  whole  soul  beamed  forth  in  the  gaze,  and 
rested  upon  that  lovely  form.  One  of  the 
maiden  aunts  whispered  something  in  her  ear; 
she  made  an  effort  to  speak ;  her  moist  blue  eye 
was  timidly  raised ;  gave  a  shy  glance  of  inquiry 
on  the  stranger ;  and  was  cast  again  to  the 
ground.  The  words  died  away ;  but  there  was 
a  sweet  smile  playing  about  her  lips,  and  a  soft 
dimpling  of  the  cheek  that  showed  her  glance 
had  not  been  unsatisfactory.  It  was  impossible 
for  a  girl  of  the  fond  age  of  eighteen,  highly 
predisposed  for  love  and  matrimony,  not  to  be 
pleased  with  so  gallant  a  cavalier. 

The  late  hour  at  which  the  guest  had  arrived 
left  no  time  for  parley.  The  baron  was  peremp 
tory,  and  deferred  all  particular  conversation  un 
til  the  morning,  and  led  the  way  to  the  untasted 
banquet. 

It  was  served  up  in  the  great  hall  of  the  castle. 
Around  the  walls  hung  the  hard-favored  portraits 
of  the  heroes  of  the  house  of  Katzenellenbogen, 
and  the  trophies  which  they  had  gained  in  the 
field  and  in  the  chase.  Hacked  corselets,  splin 
tered  jousting  spears,  and  tattered  banners,  were 
mingled  with  the  spoils  of  sylvan  warfare  ;  the 
jaws  of  the  wolf,  and  the  tusks  of  the  boar, 
grinned  horribly  among  cross-bows  and  battle- 
axes,  ani  a  huge  pair  of  antlers  branched  im 


218  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

mediately  over  the  Lead  of  the  youthful  brid» 
groom. 

The  cavalier  took  but  little  notice  of  the  com 
pany  or  the  entertainment.  He  scarcely  tasted 
the  banquet,  but  seemed  absorbed  in  admiration 
of  his  bride.  He  conversed  in  a  low  tone  that 
could  not  be  overheard  —  for  the  language  of 
love  is  never  loud  ;  but  where  is  the  female  ear 
so  dull  that  it  cannot  catch  the  softest  whisper 
of  tho  lover  ?  There  was  a  mingled  tenderness 
and  gravity  in  his  manner,  that  appeared  to  have 
a  powerful  effect  upon  the  young  lady.  Her 
color  came  and  wert  as  she  listened  with  deep 
attention.  Now  and  then  she  made  some  blush 
ing  reply,  and  when  his  eye  was  turned  away, 
she  would  steal  a  sidelong  glance  at  his  romantic 
countenance,  and  heave  a  gentle  sigh  of  tender 
happiness.  It  was  evident  that  the  young  couple 
were  completely  enamored.  The  aunts,  who 
were  deeply  versed  in  the  mysteries  of  the  heart, 
declared  that  they  had  fallen  in  love  with  each 
other  at  first  sight. 

The  feast  went  on  merrily,  or  at  least  noisily, 
for  the  guests  were  all  blessed  with  those  keen 
appetites  that  attend  upon  light  purses  and  moun 
tain-air.  The  baron,  told  his  best  and  longest 
stories,  and  never  had  he  told  them  so  well,  or 
with  such  great  effect.  If  there  was  anything 
marvellous,  his  auditors  were  lost  in  .astonish 
ment  ;  and  if  anything  facetious,  they  were  sure 
to  laugh  exactly  in  the  right  place.  The  baron. 
it  is  true,  like  most  great  men,  was  too  dignified 
to  utter  any  joke  but  a  dull  one  ;  it  was  always 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  219 

enforced,  however,  by  a  bumper  of  excellent 
Hockheimer ;  and  even  a  dull  joke,  at  one's  own 
table,  served  up  with  jolly  old  wine,  is  irresist 
ible.  Many  good  things  were  said  by  poorer  and 
keener  wits,  that  would  not  bear  repeating, 
except  on  similar  occasions  ;  many  sly  speeches 
whispered  in  ladies'  ears,  that  almost  convulsed 
them  with  suppressed  laughter ;  and  a  song  or 
two  roared  out  by  a  poor,  but  merry  and  broad- 
faced  cousin  of  the  baron,  that  absolutely  made 
the  maiden  aunts  hold  up  their  fans. 

Amidst  all  this  revelry,  the  stranger  guest 
maintained  a  most  singular  and  unseasonable 
gravity.  His  countenance  assumed  a  deeper  cast 
of  dejection  as  the  evening  advanced ;  and, 
strange  as  it  may  appear,  even  the  baron's  jokes 
seemed  only  to  render  him  the  more  melancholy. 
At  times  he  was  lost  in  thought,  and  at  times 
there  was  a  perturbed  and  restless  wandering  of 
the  eye  that  bespoke  a  mind  but  ill  at  ease.  Hia 
conversations  with  the  bride  became  more  and 
more  earnest  and  mysterious.  Lowering  clouds 
began  to  steal  over  the  fair  serenity  of  her  brow, 
and  tremors  to  run  through  her  tender  frame. 

All  this  could  not  escape  the  notice  of  the  com 
pany.  Their  gayety  was  chilled  by  the  unac 
countable  gloom  of  the  bridegroom ;  their  spirits 
were  infected ;  whispers  and  glances  were  inter 
changed,  accompanied  by  shrugs  and  dubious 
shakes  of  the  head.  The  song  and  the  laugh 
grew  less  and  less  frequent;  there  were  dreary 
pauses  in  the  conversation,  which  were  at  length 


220  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

succeeded  by  wild  tales  and  supernatural  legends, 
One  dismal  story  produced  another  still  more  dig 
mal,  and  the  baron  nearly  frightened  some  of  the 
ladies  into  hysterics  with  the  history  of  the  goblin 
horseman  that  carried  away  the  fair  Leonora ;  a 
dreadful  story,  which  has  since  been  put  into  ex« 
ccllcnt  verse,  and  is  read  and  believed  by  all  the 
world. 

The  bridegroom  listened  to  this  tale  with  pro- 
'ound  attention.  He  kept  his  eyes  steadily  fixed 
on  the  baron,  and,  as  the  story  drew  to  a  close, 
began  gradually  to  rise  from  his  seat,  growing 
taller  and  taller,  until,  in  the  baron's  entranced 
eye,  he  seemed  almost  to  tower  into  a  giant.  The 
moment  the  tale  was  finished,  he  heaved  a  deep 
sigh,  and  took  a  solemn  farewell  of  the  company. 
They  were  all  amazement.  The  baron  was  per 
fectly  thunderstruck. 

"  What !  going  to  leave  the  castle  at  midnight  ? 
why,  everything  was  prepared  for  his  reception ; 
a  chamber  was  ready  for  him  if  he  wished  to  re 
tire." 

The  stranger  shook  his  head  mournfully  and 
mysteriously ;  "  I  must  lay  my  head  in  a  different 
chamber  to-night !  " 

There  was  something  in  this  reply,  and  the  tone 
in  which  it  was  uttered,  that  made  the  baron's 
heart  misgive  him  ;  but  he  rallied  his  forces,  and 
repeated  his  hospitable  entreaties. 

The  stranger  shook  his  head  silently,  but  posi 
tively,  at  every  offer ;  and,  waving  his  farewell 
to  the  company,  stalked  slowly  out  of  the  hall 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  221 

The  maiden  annte  were  .absolutely  petrified ;  tlw 
bride  hung  her  head,  and  a  tear  stole  to  her  eye. 

The  baron  followed  the  stranger  to  the  great 
court  of  the  castle,  where  the  black  charger  stood 
pawing  the  earth,  and  snorting  with  impatience.— 
When  they  had  reached  the  portal,  whose  deep 
archway  was  dimly  lighted  by  a  cresset,  the  stran 
ger  paused,  and  addressed  the  baron  in  a  hollow 
tone  of  voice,  which  the  vaulted  roof  rendered  still 
more  sepulchral. 

"  Now  that  we  are  alone,"  said  he,  "  I  will  im 
part  to  you  the  reason  of  my  going.  I  have  a  sol 
emn,  an  indispensable  engagement"  — 

"  Why,"  said  the  baron,  "  cannot  you  send  some 
one  in  your  place  ?  " 

"  It  admits  of  no  substitute  —  I  must  attend  it 
in  person  —  I  must  away  to  Wiirtzburg  cathe 
dral"— 

"  Ay,"  said  the  baron,  plucking  up  spirit,  "  but 
not  until  to-morrow  —  to-morrow  you  shall  take 
your  bride  there." 

"  No !  no  !  "  replied  the  stranger,  with  tenfold 
solemnity,  "  my  engagement  is  with  no  bride  — - 
(lie  worms  !  the  worms  expect  me  !  I  am  a  dead 
man  —  I  have  been  slain  by  robbers  —  my  body 
lies  at  Wiirtzburg  —  at  midnight  I  am  to  be  bur 
ied  —  the  grave  is  waiting  for  me  —  I  must  keep 
sny  appointment !  " 

lie  sprang  on  his  black  charger,  dashed  over  the 
drawbridge,  and  the  clattering  of  his  horse's  hoofs 
wa.3  lost  in  the  whistling  of  the  night-blast. 

The  baron  returned  to  the  hall  in  the  almost 


222  THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 

consternation,  and  related  what  had  passed.  Two 
ladies  fainted  outright,  others  sickened  at  the  idea 
of  having  banqueted  with  a  spectre.  It  was  the 
opinion  of  some,  that  this  might  be  the  wild 
huntsman,  famous  in  German  legend,  Some 
talked  of  mountain  sprites,  of  wood-demons,  and 
of  other  supernatural  beings,  with  which  tho 
good  people  of  Germany  have  been  so  grievously 
harassed  since  time  immemorial.  One  of  the  poor 
relations  ventured  to  suggest  that  it  might  be 
some  sportive  evasion  of  the  young  cavalier,  and 
that  the  very  gloominess  of  the  caprice  seemed  to 
accord  with  so  melancholy  a  personage.  This, 
however,  drew  on  him  the  indignation  of  tho 
whole  company,  and  especially  of  the  baron,  who 
looked  upon  him  as  little  better  than  an  infidel ; 
so  that  he  was  fain  to  abjure  his  heresy  as  speedi 
ly  as  possibly,  and  come  into  the  faith  of  the  true 
believers. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  the  doubts  enter 
tained,  they  were  completely  put  to  an  end  by 
the  arrival,  next  day,  of  regular  missives,  con 
firming  the  intelligence  of  the  young  count's 
murder,  and  his  interment  in  Wurtzburg  cathe 
dral. 

The  dismay  at  the  castle  may  well  be  imag 
ined.  The  baron  shut  himself  up  in  his  chamber, 
The  guests,  who  had  come  to  rejoice  with  him, 
could  not  think  of  abandoning  him  in  his  distress. 
They  wandered  about  the  courts,  or  collected  in 
groups  in  the  hall,  shaking  their  heads  and  shrug 
ging  their  shoulders,  at  the  troubles  cf  so  good  a 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  223 

man  ;  and  sat  longer  than  ever  at  table,  and  ate 
and  drank  more  stoutly  than  ever,  by  way  of 
keeping  up  their  spirits.  But  the  situation  of  tha 
widowed  bride  was  the  most  pitiable.  To  have 
lost  a  husband  before  she  had  even  embraced  him 
—  and  such  a  husband  !  if  the  very  spectre  could 
bo  BO  gracious  and  noble,  what  must  have  beon 
the  living  man.  She  filled  the  house  with  lamen 
tations. 

On  the  night  of  the  second  day  of  her  widow 
hood,  she  had  retired  to  her  chamber,  accompanied 
by  one  of  her  aunts,  who  insisted  on  sleeping  with 
her.  The  aunt,  who  was  one  of  the  best  tellers 
of  ghost-stories  in  all  Germany,  had  just  been  re 
counting  one  of  her  longest,  and  had  fallen  asleep 
in  the  very  midst  of  it.  The  chamber  was  re 
mote,  and  overlooked  a  small  garden.  The  niece 
lay  pensively  gazing  at  the  beams  of  the  rising 
moon,  as  they  trembled  on  the  leaves  of  an  aspen- 
tree  before  the  lattice.  The  castle-clock  had  just 
tolled  midnight,  when  a  soft  strain  of  music  stole 
up  from  the  garden.  She  rose  hastily  from  her 
bed,  and  stepped  lightly  to  the  window.  A  tall 
figure  stood  among  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  Aa 
it  raised  its  head,  a  beam  of  moonlight  fell  upon 
the  countenance.  Heaven  and  earth !  she  beheld 
the  Spectre  Bridegroom!  A  loud  shriek  at  that 
moment  burst  upon  her  ear,  and  her  aunt,  who 
had  been  awakened  by  the  music,  and  had  followed 
her  silently  to  the  window,  fell  into  her  army. 
When  she  looked  again,  the  spectre  liad  disap 
peared. 


'224  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Of  the  two  females,  the  aunt  now  required  the 
most  soothing,  for  she  was  perfectly  beside  herself 
with  terror.  As  to  the  young  lady,  there  was 
something,  even  in  the  spectre  of  her  lover,  thai 
seemed  endearing.  There  was  still  the  semblanca 
of  manly  beauty ;  and  though  the  shadow  of  a 
man  is  but  little  calculated  to  satisfy  the  affections 
of  a  lovesick  girl,  yet,  where  the  substance  is  not 
to  be  had,  even  that  is  consoling.  The  aunt  de 
clared  she  would  never  sleep  in  that  chamber 
again ;  the  niece,  for  once,  was  refractory,  and 
declared  as  strongly  that  she  would  sleep  in  no 
other  in  the  castle :  the  consequence  was,  that  she 
had  to  sleep  in  it  alone ;  but  she  drew  a  promise 
from  her  aunt  not  to  relate  the  story  of  the  spec 
tre,  lest  she  should  be  denied  the  only  melancholy 
pleasure  left  her  on  earth — that  of  inhabiting  the 
chamber  over  which  the  guardian  shade  of  her 
lover  kept  its  nightly  vigils. 

How  long  the  good  old  lady  would  have  ob 
served  this  promise  is  uncertain,  for  she  dearly 
loved  to  talk  of  the  marvellous,  and  there  is  a  tri 
umph  in  being  the  first  to  tell  a  frightful  story ; 
it  is,  however,  still  quoted  in  the  neighborhood,  as 
a  memorable  instance  of  female  secrecy,  that  she 
kept  it  to  herself  for  a  whole  week ;  when  she 
Was  suddenly  absolved  from  all  further  restraint, 
by  intelligence  brought  to  the  breakfast-table  one 
morning  that  the  young  lady  was  not  to  be  found. 
Her  room  was  empty  —  the  bed  had  not  been 
Blopt  in  —  the  window  was  open,  and  the  bird 
had  (lawn ! 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  225 

The  astonishment  and  concern  with  which  the 
intelligence  was  received  can  only  be  imagined 
by  those  who  have  witnessed  the  agitation  which 
the  mishaps  of  a  great  man  cause  among  his 
friends.  Even  the  poor  relations  paused  for  a 
moment  from  the  indefatigable  labors  of  the 
trencher ;  when  the  aunt,  who  had  at  first  been 
struck  speechless,  wrung  her  hands,  and  shrieked 
out,  "  The  goblin  !  the  goblin !  she  's  carried  away 
by  the  goblin  !  " 

In  a  few  words  she  related  the  fearful  scene  of 
the  garden,  and  concluded  that  the  spectre  must 
have  carried  off  his  bride.  Two  of  the  domestics 
corroborated  the  opinion,  for  they  had  heard  the 
clattering  of  a  horse's  hoofs  down  the  mountain 
about  midnight,  and  had  no  doubt  that  it  was  the 
spectre  on  his  black  charger,  bearing  her  away  to 
the  tomb.  All  present  were  struck  with  the  dire* 
ful  probability ;  for  events  of  the  kind  are  ex 
tremely  common  in  Germany,  as  many  well-au 
thenticated  histories  bear  witness. 

What  a  lamentable  situation  was  that  of  the 
poor  baron  !  What  a  heart-rending  dilemma  for 
a  fond  father,  and  a  member  of  the  great  family 
of  Katzenellenbogen !  His  only  daughter  had 
either  been  rapt  away  to  the  grave,  or  he  was  to 
have  some  wood-demon  for  a  son-in-law,  and, 
perchance,  a  troop  of  goblin  grandchildren.  Aa 
usual,  he  was  completely  bewildered,  and  all  the 
castle  in  an  uproar.  The  men  were  ordered  to 
Lake  horse,  and  scour  every  road  and  path  and 
glen  of  the  Odenwald.  The  baron  himself  had 
15 


226  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

just  drawn  on  his  jack-boots,  girded  on  his  svreitl 
and  was  about  to  mount  his  steed  to  sally  forth  on 
the  doubtful  quest,  when  he  was  brought  to  a 
pause  by  a  new  apparition.  A  lady  was  seen  ap 
proaching  the  castle,  mounted  on  a  palfrey,  attend « 
ed  by  a  cavalier  on  horseback.  She  galloped  up 
to  the  gate,  sprang  from  her  horse,  and  falling  at 
the  baron's  feet,  embraced  his  knees.  It  was  his 
lost  daughter,  and  her  companion  —  the  Spectro 
Bridegroom !  The  baron  was  astounded.  lie 
looked  at  his  daughter,  then  at  the  spectre,  and 
almost  doubted  the  evidence  of  his  senses.  The 
latter,  too,  was  wonderfully  improved  in  his  ap 
pearance  since  his  visit  to  the  world  of  spirits, 
His  dress  was  splendid,  and  set  off  a  noble  figure 
of  manly  symmetry.  He  was  no  longer  pale  and 
melancholy.  His  fine  countenance  was  flushed 
with  the  glow  of  youth,  and  joy  rioted  in  his  large 
dark  eye. 

The  mystery  was  soon  cleared  up.  The  cava 
lier  (for,  in  truth,  as  you  must  have  known  all 
the  while,  he  was  no  goblin)  announced  himself 
as  Sir  Herman  Von  Starkenfaust.  He  related 
his  adventure  with  the  youmr  count.  He  told 
how  he  had  hastened  to  the  ca?Ue  to  deliver  the 
unwelcome  tidings,  but  that  the  eloquence  of  the 
baron  had  interrupted  him  in  evcrv  attempt  to  tell 
his  tale.  How  the  siprht  of  the  bride  had  com 
pletely  captivated  him,  and  that  to  pass  a  fe\* 
hours  near  her,  he  had  tacitly  suilertul  the  mistake 
to  continue.  How  he  had  been  sorelv  perplexed 
tn  what  way  to  moke  a  decent  retreat,  uulil  tha 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM.  227 

baron's  goblin  stories  had  suggested  his  eccentric, 
exit.  How,  fearing  the  feudal  hostility  of  the 
family,  he  had  repeated  his  visits  by  stealth-— 
had  haunted  the  garden  beneath  the  young  lady's 
window  —  had  wooed  —  had  won  —  had  borne 
-way  in  triumph  —  and,  in  a  word,  had  wedded 
»he  fair. 

Under  any  other  circumstances  the  baron  would 
have  been  inflexible,  for  ho  was  tenacious  of  pa 
ternal  authority,  and  devoutly  obstinate  in  all 
family  feuds  ;  but  he  loved  his  daughter :  he  had 
lamented  her  as  lost ;  he  rejoiced  to  find  her  still 
alive ;  and.  though  her  husband  was  of  a  hostile 
house,  yet,  thank  Heaven,  he  -was  not  a  goblin. 
There  was  something,  it  must  be  acknowledged, 
that  did  not  exactly  accord  with  his  notions  of 
strict  veracity,  in  the  joke  the  knight  had  passed 
upon  him  of  his  being  a  dead  man  ;  but  several 
old  friends  present,  who  had  served  in  the  wars, 
assured  him  that  every  stratagem  was  excusable 
in  love,  and  that  the  cavalier  was  entitled  to  espe 
cial  privilege,  having  lately  served  as  a  trooper. 

Matters,  therefore,  were  happily  arranged.  The 
baron  pardoned  the  young  couple  on  the  spot. 
The  revels  at  the  castle  were  resumed.  The 
poor  relations  overwhelmed  this  new  member  of 
the  family  with  loving-kindness ;  he  was  so  gal 
lant,  so  generous  —  and  so  rich.  The  aunts,  it 
is  true,  were  somewhat  scandalized  that  their 
system  of  strict  seclusion  and  passive  obedience 
should  be  so  badly  exemplified,  but  attributed  it 
all  to  then  negligence  in  not  having  the  windows 


223 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


grated.  One  of  them  was  particularly  mortified 
at  having  her  marvellous  story  marred,  and  that 
the  only  spectre  she  had  ever  seen  should  turn 
out  a  counterfeit ;  but  the  niece  seemed  perfectly 
happy  at  having  found  lu'm  substantial  ilc.sk  and 
blood —  and  so  the  story  ends. 


WESTMINSTER   ABBEY 


Wiien  I  behold,  with. deep  astonishment, 
To  famous  Westminster  how  there  resorte 
Living  in  brasse  or  stonev  monument, 
The  princes  and  the  worthies  of  all  sorte: 
Doe  not  1  see  ivformde  nohilitie, 
Without  contempt,  or  pride,  or  ostentation, 
And  looke  upon  otlenselesse  majesty, 
Naked  of  pomp  or  earthly  domination? 
And  how  a  play-bailie  of  a  painted  stone 
Contents  the  quiet  now  and  silent  sprites, 
Wliome  all  the  world  which  late  they  stood  upon 
Could  not  content  or  quench  their  appetites. 
Life  is  a  frost  of  cold  felicitie, 
And  death  the  thaw  of  all  our  vanitie. 

CllKlSTOLEltO'B  EPIGRAMS,  BY  T.  C.      1599. 

one  of  those  sober  and  rather  mclan 
choly  days,  in  the  latter  part  of  Autumn, 
when  the  shadows  of  morning  and  even 
ing  almost  mingle  together,  and  throw  a  gloom 
over  the  decline  of  the  year,  I  passed  several 
hours  in  rambling  about  Westminster  Abbey. 
There  was  something  congenial  to  the  season  in 
the  mournful  magnificence  of  the  old  pile ;  and, 
as  I  passed  its  threshold,  seemed  like  stepping 
back  into  the  regions  of  antiquity,  and  losing  iny» 
§elf  among  the  shades  of  former  ages. 

I  entered  from  the  inner  court  of  'Westminster 
S:liool,  through  a  long,  low,  vaulted  passage,  that 
had  an  almost  subterranean  look,  being  dimly 
lighted  in  one  part  by  circular  perforations  in 

229 


...... 


,-..    -v    -.  •    •        .-    — 


"         ^  -  :r     ..i  ,'     : 

:»»      '!':>* 

\\i     «.:>;»r;     :i.-vu:r!      :i»rs:     c  o:>;i  -T 
>     »r^a^<^  x)tf  miiitl  ihr  it?  «»*» 

r  ^    - 

','     ;'.,>;•;    !.•>; 


.     - 

n?e  ,jrane   f?wii   tbf  Tick  tnuwry  «f  ibc 
^  ibt  TWC?  winch  jMiHrnwl  the 


imj?  A  zn&. 

anil     lcaani    in  is 


- 


t?.\ 

but  ****,?  tram 


UNI   Aftttopv   (A 

thiw.  6?  (ti* 


..    •  •'•>'.    .....  ••''  '    '.    ••   '  •  .'--...-?    A,.  .-.  •     i    .•••!,>.   -VTH! 

wpmn*,    AhhAA,   1H4,  *^rl    JUiv 
Aht**,    117^.)       f    f*HXWB*4  ifMf  ffH^ 


f  »l»t/  6f  th*t  ffMt  wttdn  ftfOft* 
homa^ft  >u  iu  Axt^tx,  juvri  t^  livft  u> 
A  Kul* 


.  . .         ,.       ..... 

^^^j    C          c  j 

*  tte  T^hMfefcMttMMto 


^  «»^g  <          **r*.      l  * 
kttf 


y  up*      * 

'        .  ' 


*****  m 

•.  " 


232  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ciousness  and  gloom  of  this  vast  edifice  prodnw 
a  profound  and  mysterious  awe.  We  step  cau 
tiously  and  softly  about,  as  if  fearful  of  disturb 
ing  the  hallowed  silence  of  the  tomb ;  whilf 
every  footfall  whispers  along  the  walls,  and  chat 
ters  among  the  sepulchres,  making  us  more  sensi 
ble  of  the  quiet  we  have  interrupted. 

It  seems  as  if  the  awful  nature  of  the  place 
presses  down  upon  the  soul,  and  hushes  the  be 
holder  into  noiseless  reverence.  We  feel  that 
we  are  surrounded  by  the  congregated  bones  of 
the  great  men  of  past  times,  who  have  filled  his 
tory  with  their  deeds,  and  the  earth  with  their 
renown. 

And  yet  it  almost  provokes  a  smile  at  the 
vanity  of  human  ambition,  to  see  how  they  are 
crowded  together  and  jostled  in  the  dust ;  what 
parsimony  is  observed  in  doling  out  a  scanty 
nook,  a  gloomy  corner,  a  little  portion  of  earth, 
to  those,  whom,  when  alive,  kingdoms  could  not 
satisfy ;  and  how  many  shapes,  and  forms,  and 
artifices  are  devised  to  catch  the  casual  notice  of 
the  passenger,  and  save  from  forgetfulness,  for 
a  few  short  years,  a  name  which  once  aspired  to 
occupy  ages  of  the  world's  thought  and  admira* 
tion. 

I  passed  some  time  in  Poet's  Corner,  which 
occupies  an  end  of  one  of  the  transepts  or  cross 
Aisles  of  the  abbey.  The  monuments  are  gener 
ally  simple  ;  for  the  lives  of  literary  men  afford 
no  striking  themes  for  the  sculptor  Shakspeare 
and  Addison  have  statues  erected  to  their  mem 
ories;  but  the  greater  part  have  busts,  medal 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  233 

lions,  and  sometimes  mere  inscriptions.  Notwith 
standing  the  simplicity  of  these  memorials,  I  have 
always  observed  that  the  visitors  to  the  abbey 
remained  longest  about  them.  A  kinder  and 
fonder  feeling  takes  place  of  that  cold  curiosity 
or  vague  admiration  with  which  they  gaze  on -the 
splendid  monuments  of  the  great  and  the  heroic. 
They  linger  about  these  as  about  the  tombs  of 
friends  and  companions  ;  for  indeed  there  is  some 
thing  of  companionship  between  the  author  and 
the  reader.  Other  men  are  known  to  posterity 
only  through  the  medium  of  history,  which  13 
continually  growing  faint  and  obscure ;  but  the 
intercourse  between  the  author  and  his  fellow- 
men  is  ever  new,  active,  and  immediate.  He 
has  lived  for  them  more  than  for  himself;  he 
has  sacrificed  surrounding  enjoyments,  and  shut 
himself  up  from  the  delights  of  social  life,  that 
he  might  the  more  intimately  commune  with 
distant  minds  and  distant  ages.  Well  may  the 
world  cherish  his  renown  ;  for  it  has  been  pur 
chased,  not  by  deeds  of  violence  and  blood,  but 
by  the  diligent  dispensation  of  pleasure.  Well 
may  posterity  be  grateful  to  his  memory ;  for  ho 
has  left  it  an  inheritance,  not  of  empty  names 
and  sounding  actions,  but  whole  treasures  of 
wisdom,  bright  gems  of  thought,  and  golden 
veins  of  language. 

From  Poet's  Corner  I  continued  my  stroll 
towards  that  part  of  the  abbey  which  contains 
Jie  sepulchres  of  the  kings.  I  wandered  among 
what  once  were  chapels,  but  which  are  now  occu 
pied  by  the  tombs  and  monuments  of  the  great 


234  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

At  every  turn  I  met  with  some  illustrious  name, 
or  the  cognizance  of  some  powerful  house  re 
nowned  in  history.  As  the  eye  darts  into  these 
dusky  chambers  of  death,  it  catches  glimpses  of 
quaint  effigies ;  some  kneeling  in  niches,  as  if 
in  devotion ;  others  stretched  upon  the  tombs, 
with  hands  piously  pressed  together;  warriors 
in  armor,  as  if  reposing  after  battle ;  prelates 
with  crosiers  and  mitres ;  and  nobles  in  robes 
and  coronets,  lying  as  it  were  in  state.  In  glan 
cing  over  this  scene,  so  strangely  populous,  yet 
where  every  form  is  so  still  and  silent,  it  seems 
almost  as  if  we  were  treading  a  mansion  of  that 
fabled  city,  where  every  being  had  been  suddenly 
transmuted  into  stone. 

I  paused  to  contemplate  a  tomb  on  which  lay 
the  effigy  of  a  knight  in  complete  armor.  A 
large  buckler  was  on  one  arm ;  the  hands  were 
pressed  together  in  supplication  upon  the  breast : 
the  face  was  almost  covered  by  the  morion  ;  the 
legs  were  crossed  in  token  of  the  warrior's  hav 
ing  been  engaged  in  the  holy  war.  It  was  the 
tornb  of  a  Crusader ;  of  one  of  those  military 
enthusiasts  who  so  strangely  mingled  religion 
and  romance,  and  whose  exploits  form  the  con 
necting  link  between  fact  and  fiction  ;  between 
the  history  and  the  fairy  tale.  There  is  some 
thing  extremely  picturesque  in  the  tombs  of  these 
adventurers,  decorated  as  they  are  with  rtida 
armorial  bearings  and  Gothic  sculpture.  They 
comport  with  the  antiquated  chapels  in  whicL 
they  arc  generally  found ;  and  in  considering 
them,  the  imagination  is  apt  to  kindle  with  the 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  235 

lenendaiy  associations,  the  romantic  riction,  the 
chivalrous  pomp  and  pageantry,  which  poetry 
lias  spread  over  the  wars  for  the  sepulchre  of 
Christ.  They  are  the  relics  of  times  utterly  gone 
by ;  of  beings  passed  from  recollection ;  of  cus 
toms  and  manners  with  which  ours  have  no  affinity, 
They  are  like  objects  from  some  strange  and  dis- 
tant  land,  of  which  we  have  no  certain  knowledge, 
and  about  which  all  our  conceptions  are  vaguo 
and  visionary.  There  is  something  extremely 
solemn  and  awful  in  those  effigies  on  Gothic 
tombs,  extended  as  if  in  the  sleep  of  death,  or 
in  the  supplication  of  the  dying  hour.  They 
have  an  effect  infinitely  more  impressive  on  my 
feelings  than  the  fanciful  attitudes,  the  over 
wrought  conceits,  and  allegorical  groups,  which 
abound  on  modern  monuments.  I  have  been 
struck,  also,  with  the  superiority  of  many  of  the 
old  sepulchral  inscriptions.  There  was  a  noble 
way,  in  former  times,  of  saying  things  simply, 
and  yet  saying  them  proudly ;  and  I  do  not 
know  an  epitaph  that  breathes  a  loftier  conscious* 
ness  of  family  worth  and  honorable  lineage  than 
one  which  affirms,  of  a  noble  house,  that  "  all 
the  brothers  were  brave,  and  all  the  sisters 
virtuous." 

In  the  opposite  transept  to  Poet's  Corner 
elands  a  monument  which  is  among  the  most  re- 
aowned  achievements  of  modern  art ;  but  which 
to  me  appeai-s  horrible  rather  than  sublime.  It 
is  the  tomb  of  Mrs.  Nightingale,  by  Koubillac. 
The  bottom  of  the  monument  is  represented  aa 
throwing  open  its  marble  doors,  and  a  sheeted 


236  THE  SKETCH-BOOR. 

skeleton  is  starting  forth.  The  shroud  is  falling 
from  his  flcshless  frame  as  he  launches  his  dart 
at  his  victim.  She  is  sinking  into  her  affrighted 
husband's  arms,  who  strives,  with  vain  and  frantic 
effort,  to  avert  the  blow.  The  whole  is  executed 
with  terrible  truth  and  spirit;  we  almost  fancy  we 
hear  the  gibbering  yell  of  triumph  bursting  from 
the  distended  jaws  of  the  spectre.  —  But  why 
should  we  thus  seek  to  clothe  death  with  un 
necessary  terrors,  and  to  spread  horrors  round  the 
tomb  of  those  we  love  ?  The  grave  should  be 
surrounded  by  everything  that  might  inspire 
tenderness  and  veneration  for  the  dead  ;  or  that 
might  win  the  living  to  virtue.  It  is  the  place, 
not  of  disgust  and  dismay,  but  of  sorrow  and 
meditation. 

While  wandering  about  those  gloomy  vaults 
and  silent  aisles,  studying  the  records  of  the  dead, 
the  sound  of  busy  existence  from  without  occa 
sionally  readies  the  ear  ;  —  the  rumbling  of  the 
passing  equipage  ;  the  murmur  of  the  multitude  ; 
or  perhaps  the  light  laugh  of  pleasure.  The  con 
trast  is  striking  with  the  deathlike  repose  around  : 
and  it  has  a  strange  effect  upon  the  feelings,  thua 
to  hear  the  surges  of  active  life  hurrying  along, 
and  beating  against  the  very  walls  of  the  sep 
ulchre. 

I  continued  in  this  way  to  move  from  tomb  to 
tomb,  and  from  chapel  to  chapel.  The  day  was 
gradually  wearing  away ;  the  distant  tread  of  loi 
terers  about  the  abbey  grew  less  and  less  fre 
quent  ;  tlie  sweet-tongucd  bell  was  summoning  to 
and  I  saw  at  a  distance  tho 


WESTMINSTER   ABBEY.  237 

choristers,  in  their  white  surplices,  crossing  the 
aisle  and  entering  the  choir.  I  stood  before  the 
entrance  to  Henry  the  Seventh's  clmpel.  A 
flight  of  steps  lead  up  to  it,  through  a  deep  and 
gloomy,  but  magnificent  arch.  Great  gates  of 
brass,  richly  and  delicately  wrought,  turn  heavily 
apon  their  hinges,  as  if  proudly  reluctant  to  admit 
the  feet  of  common  mortals  into  this  most  gor 
geous  of  sepulchres. 

On  entering,  the  eye  is  astonished  by  the  pomp 
of  architecture,  and  the  elaborate  beauty  of  sculp 
tured  detail.  The  very  walls  are  wrought  into 
universal  ornament,  incrusted  with  tracery,  and 
scooped  into  niches,  crowded  with  the  statues  of 
saints  and  martyrs.  Stone  seems,  by  the  cun 
ning  labor  of  the  chisel,  to  have  been  robbed  of 
its  weight  and  density,  suspended  aloft,  as  if  by 
magic,  and  the  fretted  roof  achieved  with  the 
wonderful  minuteness  and  airy  security  of  a  cob 
web. 

Along  the  sides  of  the  chapel  are  the  lofty 
stalls  of  the  Knights  of  the  Bath,  richly  carved 
of  oak,  though  with  the  grotesque  decorations  of 
Gothic  architecture.  On  the  pinnacles  of  the 
stalls  are  affixed  the  helmets  and  crests  of  the 
knights,  with  their  scarfs  and  swords  ;  and  above 
them  are  suspended  their  banners,  emblazoned 
with  armorial  bearings,  and  contrasting  the  splen- 
lar  of  gold  and  purple  and  crimson  with  the  cold 
gray  fretwork  of  the  roof.  In  the  midst  of 
this  grand  mausoleum  stands  the  sepulchre  of 
its  founder,  —  his  effigy,  with  that  of  his  queen, 
extended  on  a  sumptuous  tomb,  and  the  wholo 


238  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

surrounded  by  a  superbly  wrought  brazen   rail 
ing. 

There  is  a  sad  dreariness  in  this  magnificence 
this  strange  mixture  of  tombs  and  trophies  ;  these 
emblems  of  living  and  aspiring  ambition,  close 
beside  mementos  which  show  the  dust  and  'ob 
livion  iii  which  all  must  sooner  or  later  terminate 
Nothing  impresses  the  mind  with  a  deeper  feeling 
of  loneliness  than  to  tread  the  silent  and  de 
serted  scene  of  former  throng  and  pageant.  On 
looking  round  on  the  vacant  stalls  of  the  knights 
and  their  esquires,  and  on  the  rows  of  dusty  but 
gorgeous  banners  that  were  once  borne  before 
them,  my  imagination  conjured  up  the  scene 
when  this  hail  was  bright  with  the  valor  and 
beauty  of  the  land  ;  glittering  with  the  splendor 
of  jewelled  rank  and  military  array ;  alive  with 
the  tread  of  many  feet  and  the  hum  of  ai» 
admiring  multitude.  All  had  passed  away ;  the 
silence  of  death  had  settled  again  upon  the  place, 
interrupted  only  by  the  casual  chirping  of  birds, 
which  had  found  their  way  into  the  chapel,  and 
built  their  nests  among  its  friezes  and  pendants  — 
sure  signs  of  solitariness  and  desertion. 

When  I  read  the  names  inscribed  on  the  ban 
ners,  they  were  those  of  men  scattered  far  ar4 
wide  about  the  world ;  some  tossing  upon  distant 
seas ;  some  under  arms  in  distant  lands  ;  somo 
mingling  in  the  busy  intrigues  of  courts  and 
Cabinets  ;  all  seeking  to  deserve  one  more  dis 
tinction  in  this  mansion  of  shadowy  honors  :  tho 
uwlancholy  reward  of  a  monument. 

Two  small  aisles  on  each  side  of  this  chapoi 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  239 

present  a  touching  instance  of  the  equality  of  the 
grave ;  which  brings  down  the  oppressor  to  a 
level  with  the  oppressed,  and  mingles  the  dust  of 
the  bitterest  enemies  together.  In  one  is  the 
sepulchre  of  the  haughty  Elizabeth ;  in  the  other 
is  that  of  her  victim,  the  lovely  and  unfortunate 
Mary.  Not  an  hour  in  the  day  but  some  ejacula 
tion  of  pity  is  uttered  over  the  fate  of  the  latter, 
mingled  with  indignation  at  her  oppressor.  The 
walls  of  Elizabeth's  sepulchre  continually  echo 
with  the  sighs  of  sympathy  heaved  at  the  grave 
of  her  rival. 

A  peculiar  melancholy  reigns  over  the  aisle 
where  Mary  lies  buried.  The  light  struggles 
dimly  through  windows  darkened  by  dust.  The 
greater  part  of  the  place  is  in  deep  shadow,  and 
the  walls  are  stained  and  tinted  by  time  and 
weather.  A  marble  figure  of  Mary  is  stretched 
upon  the  tomb,  round  which  is  an  iron  railing, 
much  corroded,  bearing  her  national  emblem  — 
the  thistle.  I  was  weary  with  wandering,  and 
sat  down  to  rest  myself  by  the  monument,  re 
volving  in  my  mind  the  checkered  and  disastrous 
story  of  poor  Mary. 

The  sound  of  casual  footsteps  had  ceased  from 
the  abbey.  I  could  only  hear,  now  and  then,  the 
distant  voice  of  the  priest  repeating  the  evening 
service,  and  the  faint  responses  of  the  choir 
these  paused  for  a  time,  and  all  was  hushed 
The  stillness,  the  desertion  and  obscurity  that 
wer3  gradually  prevailing  around,  gave  a  doepe; 
and  more  solemn  interest  to  the  place. 

For  in  the  silent  grave  no  conversation, 

Ko  joyful  tread  of  friend*,  no  voice  of  [overs. 


240  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

No  careful  father's  counsel  —  nothing  's  heard, 
For  nothing  is,  but  all  oblivion, 
Dust,  and  an  endless  darkness. 

Suddenly  the  notes  of  the  deep-laboring  organ 
burst  upon  the  ear,  falling  with  doubled  and  re* 
doubled  intensity,  and  rolling,  as  it  were,  huge 
billows  of  sound.  How  well  do  their  volume 
and  grandeur  accord  with  this  mighty  building ! 
With  what  pomp  do  they  swell  through  its  vast 
vaults,  and  breathe  their  awful  harmony  through 
these  caves  of  death,  and  make  the  silent  sepul 
chre  vocal !  —  And  now  they  rise  in  triumph 
and  acclamation,  heaving  higher  and  higher  their 
accordant  notes,  and  piling  sound  on  sound.  -— 
And  now  they  pause,  and  the  soft  voices  of  the 
choir  break  out  into  sweet  gushes  of  melody  $ 
they  soar  aloft,  and  warble  along  the  roof,  and 
seem  to  play  about  these  lofty  vaults  like  the 
pure  airs  of  heaven.  Again  the  pealing  organ 
heaves  its  thrilling  thunders,  compressing  air 
into  music,  and  rolling  it  forth  upon  the  soul. 
What  long  -  drawn  cadences  !  What  solemn 
sweeping  concords !  It  grows  more  and  more 
dense  and  powerful  —  it  fills  the  vast  pile,  and 
seems  to  jar  the  very  walls  —  the  car  is  stunned 
—  the  senses  arc  overwhelmed.  And  now  it  is 
winding  up  in  full  jubilee  —  it  is  rising  from  the 
earth  to  heaven  —  the  very  soul  seems  rapt 
away  and  floated  upwards  on  this  swelling  tide 
of  harmony  ! 

I  sat  for  some  tinic  lost  in  that  kind  of  reverie 
which  a  strain  of  music  is  apt  sometimes  to  in 
spire  :  the  shadows  of  evening  were  gradually 
itiidjening  round  me ;  the  monuments  began  to 
ast  deeper  and  deeper  gloom;  and  tl;e  ili«tot:» 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  241 

elock   again   gave  token  of  the    slowly  waning 
day. 

I  rose  and  prepared  to  leave  the  abbey.  As  I 
descended  the  flight  of  steps  which  lead  into  the 
body  of  the  building,  my  eye  was  caught  by  the 
phrine  of  Edward  the  Confessor,  and  I  ascended 
the  small  staircase  that  conducts  to  it,  to  take 
from  thence  a  general  survey  of  this  wilderness 
of  tombs.  The  shrine  is  elevated  upon  a  kind 
of  platform,  and  close  around  it  are  the  sepulchres 
of  various  kings  and  queens.  From  this  emi 
nence  the  eye  looks  down  between  pillars  and 
funeral  trophies  to  the  chapels  and  chambers 
below,  crowded  with  tombs,  —  where  warriors, 
prelates,  courtiers,  and  statesmen  lie  mouldering 
in  their  "  beds  of  darkness."  Close  by  me  stood 
the  great  chair  of  coronation,  rudely  carved  of 
oak,  in  the  barbarous  taste  of  a  remote  and 
Gothic  age.  The  scene  seemed  almost  as  if  con 
trived,  with  theatrical  artifice,  to  produce  an 
effect  upon  the  beholder.  Here  was  a  type  of 
the  beginning  and  the  end  of  human  pomp  and 
power ;  here  it  was  literally  but  a  step  from  the 
throne  to  the  sepulchre.  Would  not  one  think 
that  these  incongruous  mementos  had  been  gath 
ered  together  as  a  lesson  to  living  greatness  ?  — - 
to  show  it,  even  in  the  moment  of  its  proudest 
exaltation,  the  neglect  and  dishonor  to  which  U 
must  soon  arrive ;  how  soon  that  crown  which 
encircles  its  brow  must  pass  away,  and  it  must 
lie  down  in  the  dust  and  disgraces  of  the  tombj 
and  be  trampled  upon  by  the  feet  of  the  meanest 

of  the  multitude.     For,  strange  to  tell,  even  the 
16 


242  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

grave  is  here  no  longer  a  sanctuary.  There  la 
a  shocking  levity  in  some  natures,  which  leada 
them  to  sport  with  awful  and  hallowed  things; 
and  there  are  base  minds,  which  delight  to  re 
venge  on  the  illustrious  dead  the  abject  homage 
and  grovelling  servility  which  they  pay  to  the 
living.  The  coffin  of  Edward  the  Confessor  has 
been  broken  open,  and  his  remains  despoiled  of 
their  funereal  ornaments  ;  the  sceptre  has  been 
stolen  from  the  hand  of  the  imperious  Elizabeth, 
and  the  effigy  of  Henry  the  Fifth  lies  headless. 
Not  a  royal  monument  but  bears  some  proof 
how  false  and  fugitive  is  the  homage  of  mankind. 
Some  are  plundered  ;  some  mutilated  ;  some  cov 
ered  with  ribaldry  and  insult,  —  all  more  or  less 
outraged  and  dishonored! 

The  last  beams  of  day  were  now  faintly 
streaming  through  the  painted  windows  in  high 
vaults  above  me ;  the  lower  parts  of  the  abbey 
were  already  wrapped  in  the  obscurity  of  twilight. 
The  chapels  and  aisles  grew  darker  and  darker. 
The  effigies  of  the  kings  faded  into  shadows ;  the 
marble  figures  of  the  monuments  assumed  strange 
shapes  in  the  uncertain  light ;  the  evening  breeze 
crept  through  the  aisles  like  the  cold  breath  of 
the  grave ;  and  even  the  distant  footfall  of  a 
verger,  traversing  the  Poet's  Corner,  had  some 
thing  strange  and  dreary  in  its  sound.  I  slowly 
retraced  my  morning's  walk,  and  as  I  passed  out 
at  the  portal  of  the  cloisters,  the  door,  closing 
with  a  jarring  noise  behind  me,  filled  the  whole 
building  with  echoes. 

I  endeavored  to  form  some  arrangement  in  mj 
mind  of  the  objects  I  had  been  contemplating 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  243 

but  found  they  were  already  fallen  into  indistinct 
ness  and  confusion.  Names,  inscriptions,  trophies, 
had  all  become  confounded  in  my  recollection, 
though  I  had  scarcely  taken  my  foot  from  off 
the  threshold.  What,  thought  I,  is  this  vast  as 
semblage  of  sepulchres  but  a  treasury  of  humilia 
tion  ;  a  huge  pile  of  reiterated  homilies  on  the 
emptiness  ")f  renown,  and  the  certainty  of  ob 
livion  !  It  is,  indeed;  the  empire  of  death  —  hia 
great  shadowy  palace,  where  lie  sits  in  state, 
mocking  at  the  relics  of  human  glory,  and  spread 
ing  dust  and  forgetfulness  on  the  monuments  of 
princes.  How  idle  a  boast,  after  all,  is  the  im 
mortality  of  a  name.  Time  is  ever  silently 
turning  over  his  pages ;  we  are  too  much  en 
grossed  by  the  story  of  the  present,  to  think  of 
the  characters  and  anecdotes  that  gave  interest 
to  the  past ;  and  each  age  is  a  volume  thrown 
aside  to  be  speedily  forgotten.  The  idol  of  to 
day  pushes  the  hero  of  yesterday  out  of  our 
recollection ;  and  will,  in  turn,  be  supplanted  by 
his  successor  of  to-morrow.  "  Our  fathers,"  says 
Sir  Thomas  Browne,  "  find  their  graves  in  our 
short  memories,  and  sadly  tell  us  how  we  may 
be  buried  in  our  survivors."  History  fades  into 
fable  ;  fact  becomes  clouded  with  doubt  and  con 
troversy  ;  the  inscription  moulders  from  the  tab 
let ;  the  statue  falls  from  the  pedestal.  Columns 
arches,  pyramids,  what  are  they  but  heaps  of 
sand;  and  their  epitaphs,  but  characters  written 
in  the  dust  ?  What  is  the  security  of  a  tomb, 
or  the  perpetuity  of  an  embalmment  ?  The  re 
mains  of  Alexander  the  Great  have  been  scat 
tered  to  the  wind,  and  his  empty  sarcophagus  is 


244  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

now  the  mere  curiosity  of  a  museum.  "Tha 
Egyptian  mummies,  which  Cambyses  or  time 
hath  spared,  avarice  now  consumeth ;  Mizrairo 
cures  wounds,  and  Pharaoh  is  sold  for  bal 
sams."  * 

What  then  is  to  insure  this  pile  which  now 
towers  above  me  from  sharing  the  fate  of  migh 
tier  mausoleums  ?  The  time  must  come  when  its 
gilded  vaults,  which  now  spring  so  loftily,  siidll 
lie  in  rubbish  beneath  the  feet ;  when,  instead  of 
the  sound  of  melody  and  praise,  the  wind  shall 
whistle  through  the  broken  arches,  and  the  ow. 
hoot  from  the  shattered  tower,  —  when  the 
gairish  sunbeam  shall  break  into  these  gloomy 
mansions  of  death,  and  the  ivy  twine  round  the 
fallen  column  ;  and  the  foxglove  hang  its  bios- 
Boms  about  the  nameless  urn,  as  if  in  mockery 
of  the  dead.  Thus  man  passes  away ;  his  name 
perishes  from  record  and  recollection;  his  his 
tory  is  as  a  tale  that  is  told,  and  his  very  ino:m« 
tnent  becomes  a  ruin.f 

•  Sir  T.  Browne. 

f  For  notes  on  Westminster  Abbey,  see  Appendix 


CHRISTMAS. 


But  ia  olil,  old,  good  old  Christmas  gone?  Nothing  but  tt$ 
fcair  of  his  good,  gray,  old  head  and  beard  left?  Well,  I  wifl 
huve  that,  seeing  I  cannot  have  more  of  him. 

HUE  AND  GUY  AFTKB  ClIKISTMAS. 

A  man  might  then  behold 

At  Christmas,  in  each  hall 
Good  fires  to  curb  the  cold, 

And  meat  for  great  and  small. 
The  neighbors  were  friendly  bidden, 

And  all  had  welcome  true; 
The  poor  from  the  gates  were  not  chidden 

When  this  old  cap  was  new.  —  OLD  SONO. 

jOTIIING  in  England  exercises  a  more 
delightful  spell  over  my  imagination 
than  the  lirigerings  of  the  holiday  cus 
toms  and  rural  games  of  former  times.  They 
recall  the  pictures  my  fancy  used  to  draw  in  the 
May  morning  of  life,  when  as  yet  I  only  knew 
the  world  through  books,  and  believed  it  to  be  all 
that  poets  had  painted  it ;  and  they  bring  with 
them  the  flavor  of  those  honest  days  of  yore,  ia 
which,  perhaps,  with  equal  fallacy,  I  am  apt  to 
think  the  world  was  more  homebred,  social,  and 
joyous  than  at  present.  I  regret  to  say  that  they 
are  daily  growing  more  and  more  faint,  being 
gradually  worn  away  by  time,  but  still  more  oblit 
erated  by  modern  fashion.  They  resemble  those 
picturesque  morsels  of  Gothic  architecture,  whiofc 

245 


246  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

we  sec  crumbling  in  various  parts  of  the  country, 
partly  dilapidated  by  the  waste  of  ages,  and  partly 
lost  in  the  additions  and  alterations  of  later  days. 
Poetry,  however,  clings  with  cherishing  fondness 
about  the  rural  game  and  holiday  revel,  from 
which  it  has  derived  so  many  of  its  themes  —  as 
the  ivy  winds  its  rich  foliage  about  the  Gothic 
aruh  and  mouldering  tower,  gratefully  repaying 
their  support  by  clasping  together  their  tottering 
remains,  and,  as  it  were,  embalming  them  in  verd 
ure. 

Of  all  the  old  festivals,  however,  that  of  Christ 
mas  awakens  the  strongest  and  most  heartfelt  as- 

O 

sociations.  There  is  a  tone  of  solemn  and  sacred 
feeling  that  blends  with  our  conviviality,  and  lifts 
the  spirit  to  a  state  of  hallowed  and  elevated  en 
joyment.  The  services  of  the  church  about  this 
season  are  extremely  tender  and  inspiring.  They 
dwell  on  the  beautiful  story  of  the  origin  of  our 
faith,  and  the  pastoral  scenes  that  accompanied  its 
announcement.  They  gradually  increase  in  fervor 
and  pathos  during  the  season  of  Advent,  until 
they  break  forth  in  full  jubilee  on  the  morning 
that  brought  peace  and  good-will  to  men.  I  do 
not  know  a  grander  effect  of  music  on  the  moral 
feelings  than  to  hear  the  full  choir  and  the  peal 
ing  organ  performing  a  Christmas  anthem  in  a 
cathedral,  and  filling  every  part  of  the  vast  pile 
with  triumphant  harmony. 

It  is  a  beautiful  arrangement,  also,  derived  fron? 
days  of  yore,  that  this  festival,  which  comrcemo 
rates  the  announcement  of  the  religion  of  peace 
%nd  love,  has  been  made  the  season  for  gathering 


CHRISTMAS.  247 

together  of  family  connections,  and  drawing  closer 
again  those  bands  of  kindred  hearts,  which  the 
cares  and  pleasures  and  sorrows  of  the  world  are 
continually  operating  to  cast  loose ;  of  calling 
back  the  children  of  a  family,  who  have  launched 
forth  in  life,"  and  wandered  widely  asunder,  ones 
more  to  assemble  about  the  paternal  hearth,  that 
rallying  -  place  of  the  affections,  there  to  grow 
young  and  loving  again  among  the  endearing 
mementos  of  childhood. 

There  is  something  in  the  very  season  of  the 
year  that  gives  a  charm  to  the  festivity  of  Christ 
mas.  At  other  times  we  derive  a  great  portion 
of  our  pleasures  from  the  mere  beauties  of  nature. 
Our  feelings  sally  forth  and  dissipate  themselves 
over  the  sunny  landscape,  and  we  "  live  abroad 
and  everywhere."  The  song  of  the  bird,  the  mur 
mur  of  the  stream,  the  breathing  fragrance  of 
spring,  the  soft  voluptuousness  of  summer,  the 
golden  pomp  of  autumn ;  earth  with  its  mantle 
of  refreshing  green,  and  heaven  with  its  deep  de 
licious  blue  and  its  cloudy  magnificence,  all  fill 
us  with  mute  but  exquisite  delight,  and  we  revel 
in  the  luxury  of  mere  sensation.  But  in  the 
depth  of  winter,  when  nature  lies  despoiled  of 
every  charm,  and  wrapped  in  her  shroud  of 
sheeted  snow,  we  turn  for  our  gratifications  to 
moral  sources.  The  dreariness  and  desolation  of 
the  landscape,  the  short  gloomy  days  and  dark" 
some  nights,  while  they  circumscribe  our  wander-' 
ings,  shut  in  our  feelings  also  from  rambling 
abroad,  and  make  us  more  keenly  disposed  for 
the  pleasure  of  the  social  circle.  Our  thoughts 


248  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

are  more  concentrated ;  our  friendly  sympatliiea 
more  aroused.  We  feel  more  sensibly  the  ?harm 
of  each  other's  society,  and  are  brought  more 
closely  together  by  dependence  on  each  other 
for  enjoyment.  Heart  calleth  unto  heart ;  and 
we  draw  our  pleasures  from  the  deep  wells  of 
loving-kindness,  which  lie  in  the  quiet  recesses 
of  our  bosoms ;  and  which,  when  resorted  to, 
furnish  forth  the  pure  element  of  domestic  felic 
ity. 

The  pitchy  gloom  without  makes  the  heart  di 
late  on  entering  the  room  filled  with  the  glow  and 
warmth  of  the  evening  fire.  The  ruddy  blaze 
diffuses  an  artificial  summer  and  sunshine  through 
the  room,  and  lights  up  each  countenance  in  a 
kindlier  welcome.  Where  does  the  honest  face  of 
hospitality  expand  into  a  broader  and  more  cordial 
smile  —  where  is  the  shy  glance  of  love  more 
sweetly  eloquent  —  than  by  the  winter  fireside  ? 
and  as  the  hollow  blast  of  wintry  wind  rushes 
through  the  hall,  claps  the  distant  door,  whistles 
about  the  casement,  and  rumbles  down  the  china  • 
ney,  what  can  be  more  grateful  than  that  feeling 
of  sober  and  sheltered  security,  with  which  we 
look  round  upon  the  comfortable  chamber  and  the 
scene  of  domestic  hilarity  ? 

The  English,  from  the  great  prevalence  of 
rural  habit  throughout  every  class  of  society  havo 
always  been  fond  of  those  festivals  and  holiday! 
which  agreeably  interrupt  the  stillness  of  country 
life ;  and  they  were,  in  former  days,  particularly 
observant  of  the  religious  and  social  rights  of 
Christmas.  It  is  inspiring  to  read  even  the  drj 


CHRISTMAS.  249 

details  which  some  antiquaries  have  given  of  the 
quaint  humors,  the  burlesque  pageants,  the  com 
plete  abandonment  to  mirth*  and  good -fellow 
ship,  with  which  this  festival  was  celebrated.  It 
Gccmed  to  throw  open  every  door,  and  unlock 
every  -heart.  It  brought  the  peasant  and  the 
peer  together,  and  blended  all  ranks  in  one 
warm  generous  flow  of  joy  and  kindness.  The 
old  halls  of  castles  and  manor-houses  resounded 
with  the  harp  and  the  Christmas  carol,  and  their 
ample  boards  groaned  under  the  weight  of  hos 
pitality.  Even  the  poorest  cottage  welcomed  the 
festive  season  with  green  decorations  of  bay  and 
holly,  —  the  cheerful  fire  glanced  its  rays  through 
the  lattice,  inviting  the  passengers  to  raise  the 
latch,  and  join  the  gossip  knot  huddled  round  the 
hearth,  beguiling  the  long  evening  with  legendary 
jokes  and  oft-told  Christmas  tales. 

One  of  the  least  pleasing  effects  of  modern  refine 
ment  is  the  havoc  it  has  made  among  the  hearty 
old  holiday  customs.  It  has  completely  taken  <jff 
the  sharp  touchings  and  spirited  reliefs  of  these 
embellishments  of  life,  and  has  worn  down  society 
into  a  more  smooth  and  polished,  but  certainly  a 
less  characteristic  surface.  Many  of  the  games 
and  ceremonials  of  Christmas  have  entirely  disap 
peared,  and,  like  the  sherris  sack  of  old  Falstaff, 
are  become  matters  of  speculation  and  dispute 
among  commentators.  They  flourished  in  times 
full  of  spirit  and  lustihood,  when  men  enjoyed  life 
roughly,  but  heartily  and  vigorously  ;  times  wild 
and  picturesque,  which  have  furnished  poetry  with 
its  richest  materials,  and  the  drama  with  its  mosl 


250  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

attractive  variety  of  characters  and  manners. 
The  world  has  become  more  worldly.  There  is 
more  of  dissipation,  and  less  of  enjoyment.  Pleas 
ure  has  expanded  into  a  broader,  but  a  shallower 
stream,  and  has  forsaken  many  of  those  deep  and 
qniet  channels  where  it  flowed  sweetly  through 
the  calm  bosom  of  domestic  life.  Society  has 
acquired  a  more  enlightened  and  elegant  tone  ; 
but  it  has  lost  many  of  its  strong  local  peculiari 
ties,  its  homebred  feelings,  its  honest  fireside  de- 
tights.  The  traditionary  customs  of  golden-hearted 
antiquity,  its  feudal  hospitalities,  and  lordly  was 
sailings,  have  passed  away  with  the  baronial  cas 
hes  and  stalely  manor-houses  in  which  they  wero 
Celebrated.  They  comported  with  the  shadowy 
hail,  the  great  oaken  gallery,  and  the  tapestried 
parlor,  but  are  unfitted  to  the  light  showy  saloons 
and  gay  drawing-rooms  of  the  modern  villa. 

bhorn,  however,  as  it  is,  of  its  ancient  and  fes 
tive  honors,  Christmas  is  still  a  period  of  delight 
ful  excitement  in  England.  It  is  gratifying  to 
Bee  that  home-feenng  completely  aroused  which 
holds  so  powerful  a  place  in  every  English  bosom. 
The  preparations  making  on  every  side  for  the 
Bocial  board  that  is  again  to  unite  friends  and  kin 
dred  ;  the  presents  of  gocd  cheer  passing  and 
repassing,  those  tokens  of  regard,  and  quickenera 
of  kind  feelings  ;  the  evergreens  distributed  about 
houses,  and  churches,  emblems  of  peace  and  glad 
ness  ;  all  these  have  the  most  pleasing  effect  'in 
producing  fond  associations,  and  kindling  benevo« 
lent  sympathies.  Even  the  sound  of  the  Waits, 
rude  as  may  be  their  minstrelsy,  breaks  upon  tlia 


CHRISTMAS.  251 

raid-watches  of  a  winter  night  with  the  effect  of 
perfect  harmony.  As  I  have  been  awakened  by 
them  in  that  still  and  solemn  hour,  •'  when  deep 
Bleep  falleth  upon  man,"  I  have  listened  with  a 
hushed  delight,  and,  connecting  them  with  the  sa 
cred  and  joyous  occasion,  have  almost  fancied  them 
into  another  celestial  choir,  announcing  peace  and 
good-will  to  mankind. 

How  delightfully  the  imagination,  when  wrought 
upon  by  these  moral  influences,  turns  everything 
to  melody  and  beauty !  The  very  crowing  of  the 
cock,  heard  sometimes  in  the  profound  repose  of 
the  country,  "  telling  the  night-watches  to  his  feath 
ery  dames,"  was  thought  by  the  common  people  to 
announce  the  approach  of  this  sacred  festival. 

"  Some  say  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  is  celebrated, 
This  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long; 
And  then,  they  sn^v,  no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad; 
The  nights  are  wholesome  —  then  no  planets  strike, 
No  fairy  takes,  no  witch  hath  power  to  charm 
So  hallow'd  and  so  gracious  is  the  time." 

Amidst  the  general  call  to  happiness,  the  bustle 
of  the  spirits,  and  stir  of  the  affections,  which  pre 
vail  at  this  period,  what  bosom  can  remain  insen 
sible?  It  is,  indeed,  the  season  of  regenerated 
feeling  —  the  season  for  kindling,  not  merely  the 
(ire  of  hospitality  in  the  hall,  but  the  genial  flame 
of  charity  in  the  heart. 

The  scene  of  early  love  again  rises  green  to 
memory  beyond  the  sterile  waste  of  years ;  and 
the  idea  of  home,  fraught  with  the  fragrance  of 
home-dwelling  joys,  reanimates  the  drooping  spirit ; 
as  tbe  Arabian  breeze  will  sometimes  waft  the 


252  THE  SKETCH-LOOK. 

freshness  of  the  distant  fields  to  the  weary  pilgrim 
of  the  desert. 

Stranger  ani  sojourncr  as  I  am  in  the  land  — 
tl  Dugh  for  me  no  social  hearth  may  blaze,  no  hos 
pitable  roof  throw  open  its  doors,  nor  the  warm 
grasp  of  friendship  welcome  me  at  the  threshold  — » 
yet  I  feel  the  influence  of  the  season  beaming  into 
my  soul  from  the  happy  looks  of  those  around 
me.  Surely,  happiness  is  reflective,  like  the  light 
of  heaven ;  and  every  countenance,  bright  with 
smiles,  and  glowing  with  innocent  enjoyment,  is  a 
mirror  transmitting  to  others  the  rays  of  a  supreme 
and  ever-shining  benevolence.  lie  who  can  turn 
churlishly  away  from  contemplating  the  felicity  of 
his  fellow-beings,  and  can  sit  down  darkling  and 
repining  in  his  loneliness  when  all  around  is  joyful, 
may  have  his  moments  of  strong  excitement  and 
selfish  gratification,  but  he  wants  the  genial  and 
social  sympathies  which  constitute  the  charm  of  a 
merry  Christmas. 


THE   STAGE-COAC& 


Omne  ben<5 

Sine  pa-tia 
Teiupus  est  ludendi. 

Venit  hora 

Absque  inora 
Libros  deponendi. 

OLD  HOLIDAY  SCHOOL  SOHO. 

N  the  preceding  paper  I  liave  made  some 
general  observations  on  the  Christmas 
festivities  of  England,  and  am  tempted 
to  illustrate  them  by  some  anecdotes  of  a  Christ 
mas  passed  in  the  country ;  in  perusing  which  I 
would  most  courteously  invite  my  reader  to  lay 
aside  the  austerity  of  wisdom,  and  to  put  on  that 
genuine  holiday  spirit  which  is  tolerant  of  folly, 
and  anxious  only  for  amusement. 

In  the  course  of  a  December  tour  in  Yorkshire, 
[  rode  for  a  long  distance  in  one  of  the  public 
coaches,  on  the  day  preceding  Christmas.  The 
eoach  was  crowded,  both  inside  and  out,  with  pas 
sengers,  who,  by  their  talk,  seemed  principally 
bound  to  the  mansions  of  relations  or  friends,  to 
»at  the  Christmas  dinner.  It  was  loaded  also  with 
hampers  of  game,  and  baskets  and  boxes  of  deli 
cacies;  and  bares  hung  dangling  their  long  ears 
about  the  coachman's  box,  presents  from  distant 
friends  for  the  impending  feast.  I  had  three  fine 

253 


254  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

rosy -cheeked  boys  for  my  fellow-pass-engers  inside, 
full  of  the  buxom  health  and  manly  spirit  which 
I  have  observed  in  the  children  of  this  country. 
They  were  returning  home  for  the  holidays  in  high 
glee,  and  promising  themselves  a  world  of  enjoy 
ment.  It  was  delightful  to  hear  the  gigantic  plans 
of  the  little  rogues,  and  the  impracticable  feata 
they  were  to  perform  during  their  six  weeks' 
emancipation  from  the  abhorred  thraldom  of  book, 
birch,  and  pedagogue.  They  were  full  of  antici 
pations  of  the  meeting  with  the  family  and  house 
hold,  down  to  the  very  cat  and  dog  ;  and  of  the 
joy  they  were  to  give  their  little  sisters  by  the 
presents  with  which  their  pockets  were  crammed; 
but  the  meeting  to  which  they  seemed  to  look  for 
ward  with  the  greatest  impatience  was  with  Ban 
tam,  which  I  found  to  be  a  pony,  and,  according 
to  their  talk,  possessed  of  more  virtues  than  any 
steed  since  the  clays  of  Bucephalus.  How  he 
could  trot !  how  he  could  run  !  and  then  such 
leaps  as  he  would  take  —  there  was  not  a  hedge 
in  the  whole  country  that  he  could  not  clear. 

They  were  under  the  particular  guardianship 
of  the  coachman,  to  whom,  whenever  an  opportu 
nity  presented,  they  addressed  a  host  of  questions, 
and  pronounced  him  one  of  the  best  fellows  in 
the  world.  Indeed,  I  could  not  but  notice  the 
more  than  ordinary  air  of  bustle  and  importance 
of  the  coachman,  who  wore  his  hat  a  little  on  ono 
side,  and  had  a  large  bunch  of  Christmas  greens 
Btuv;k  in  the  button-hole  of  his  coat.  He  is  al 
ways  a  personage  full  of  mighty  care  and  bus« 
ness,  but  he  is  particularly  so  during  this  seast/o, 


THE  STAGE-COACH.  255 

having  so  many  commissions  to  execute  in  con 
sequence  of  the  great  interchange  of  presents 
And  here,  perhaps,  it  may  not  be  unacceptable  to 
my  untravelled  readers,  to  have  a  sketch  that 
may  serve  as  a  general  representation  of  this 
very  numerous  and  important  class  of  function 
aries,  who  have  a  dress,  a  manner,  a  language 
ar  air,  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  prevalent 
throughout  the  fraternity ;  so  that,  wherever  an 
English  stage-coachman  may  be  seen,  he  cannot 
be  mistaken  for  one  of  any  other  craft  or  mys 
tery. 

He  has  commonly  a  broad,  full  face,  curiously 
mottled  with  red,  as  if  the  blood  had  been  forced 
by  hard  feeding  into  every  vessel  of  the  skin ;  he 
is  swelled  into  jolly  dimensions  by  frequent  pota 
tions  of  malt  liquors,  and  his  bulk  is  still  further 
increased  by  a  multiplicity  of  coats,  in  which  he 
is  buried  like  a  cauliflower,  the  upper  one  reach 
ing  to  his  heels.  He  wears  a  broad  -  brimmed, 
low-crowned  hat;  a  huge  roll  of  colored  hand 
kerchief  about  his  neck,  knowingly  knotted  and 
tucked  in  at  the  bosom  ;  and  has  in  summer-time 
a  large  bouquet  of  flowers  in  his  button-hole  ;  the 
present,  most  probably,  of  some  enamored  country 
lass.  His  waistcoat  is  commonly  of  some  blight 
color,  striped,  and  his  small-clothes  extend  far 
below  the  knees,  to  meet  a  pair  of  jockey-boots 
which  reach  about  half  way  up  his  legs. 

All  this  costume  is  maintained  with  much  pre 
cision  ;  he  has  a  pride  in  having  his  clothes  of  ex 
cellent  materials  ;  and,  notwithstanding  the  seam 
ing  grossness  of  his  appearance,  there  is  still  dis 


236  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

oernible  that  neatness  and  propriety  of  pel-son* 
which  is  almost  inherent  in  an  Englishman.  H« 
enjoys  great  consequence  and  consideration  along 
(he  road ;  has  frequent  conferences  with  the  vil 
hge  housewives,  who  look  upon  him  as  a  man  of 
great  trust  and  dependence ;  and  he  seems  to 
have  a  good  understanding  with  every  bright- 
eyed  country  lass.  The  moment  he  arrives 
where  the  horses  are  to  be  changed,  he  throws 
down  the  reins  with  something  of  an  air,  and 
abandons  the  cattle  to  the  care  of  the  hostler ; 
his  duty  being  merely  to  drive  from  one  stage  to 
another.  When  off  the  box,  his  hands  are  thrust 
into  the  pockets  of  his  great-coat,  and  he  rolls 
about  the  inn-yard  with  an  air  of  the  most  abso 
lute  lordliness.  Here  he  is  generally  surrounded 
by  an  admiring  throng  of  hostlers,  stable-boys, 
shoeblacks,  and  those  nameless  hangers-on,  that 
infest  inns  and  taverns,  and  run  errands,  and  do 
all  kind  of  odd  jobs,  for  the  privilege  of  battening 
on  the  drippings  of  the  kitchen  and  the  leakage 
of.  the  tap-room.  These  all  look  up  to  him  as  to 
an  oracle ;  treasure  up  his  cant  phrases  ;  echo  his 
opinions  about  horses  and  other  topics  of  jockey 
lore ;  and,  above  all,  endeavor  to  imitate  his  air 
and  carriage.  Every  ragamuflin  that  has  a  coat 
lo  his  back,  thrusts  his  hands  in  the  pockets, 
rolls  in  his  gait,  talks  slang,  and  is  an  embryo 
Coachey. 

Perhaps  it  might  be  owing  to  the  pleasing  se 
renity  that  reigned  in  my  own  mind,  that  I  fan 
cied  1  saw  cheerfulness  in  every  countenance 
throughout  the  journey.  A  stage-coach,  however 


THE  STAGE-COACH.  257 

carries  animation  always  with  it,  and  puts  the 
world  in  motion  as  it  whirls  along.  The  horn, 
sounded  at  the  entrance  of  a  village,  produces 
a  general  bustle.  Some  hasten  forth  to  meet 
fi iends  ;  some  with  bundles  and  bandboxes  to  se 
cure  places,  and  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment  can 
liardly  take  leave  of  the  group  that  accompanies 
them.  In  the  mean  time,  the  coachman  has  a 
world  of  small  commissions  to  execute.  Some 
times  he  delivers  a  hare  or  pheasant ;  sometimes 
jerks  a  small  parcel  or  newspaper  to  the  door  of 
a  public  house ;  and  sometimes,  with  knowing 
leer  and  words  of  sly  import,  hands  to  some  half- 
blushing,  half-laughing  housemaid  an  odd-shaped 
billet-doux  from  some  rustic  admirer.  As  the 
coach  rattles  through  the  village,  every  one  runs 
to  the  window,  and  you  have"  glances  on  every 
side  of  fresh  country  faces  and  blooming  giggling 
girls.  At  the  corners  are  assembled  juntos  of 
village  idlers  and  wise  men,  who  take  their  sta 
tions  there  for  the  important  purpose  of  seeing 
company  pass ;  but  the  sagest  knot  is  generally 
at  the  blacksmith's,  to  whom  the  passing  of  the 
coach  is  an  event  fruitful  of  much  speculation. 
The  smith,  with  the  horse's  heel  in  his  lap,  pauses 
as  the  vehicle  whirls  by ;  the  cyclops  round  the 
fuivil  suspend  their  ringing  hammers,  and  suffer 
the  iron  to  grow  cool ;  and  the  sooty  spectre,  in 
brown  paper  cap,  laboring  at  the  bellows,  leans  on 
foe  handle  for  a  moment,  and  permits  the  asth 
matic  engine  to  heave  a  long-drawn  sigh,  while 
*ie  glares  through  the  murky  smoke  and  sulphu- 
gbams  of  the  smithy. 
17 


258  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Perhaps  the  impending  holiday  might  liav€ 
given  a  more  than  usual  animation  to  the  country, 
for  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  everybody  was  in  good 
looks  and  good  spirits.  Game,  poultry,  and  other 
luxuries  of  the  table,  were  in  brisk  circulation  in 
the  villages  ;  the  grocers',  butchers',  and  fruiterers 
elmps  were  thronged  with  customers.  The  house 
wives  were  stirring  briskly  about,  putting  their 
dwellings  in  order ;  and  the  glossy  branches  of 
holly,  with  their  bright-red  berries,  began  to  ap  • 
pear  at  the  windows.  The  scene  brought  to 
mind  an  old  writer's  account  of  Christmas  prep 
arations  :  "  Now  capons  and  hens,  beside  turkey, 
geese,  and  ducks,  with  beef  and  mutton  —  must 
all  die  —  for  hi  twelve  days  a  multitude  of  peo 
ple  will  not  be  fed  with  a  little.  Now  plums 
and  spice,  sugar  and  honey,  square  it  among  pies 
and  broth.  Now  or  never  must  music  be  in  tune, 
for  the  youth  must  dance  and  sing  to  get  them  a 
heat,  while  the  aged  sit  by  the  fire.  The  coun 
try  maid  leaves  half  her  market,  and  must  be 
sent  again,  if  she  forgets  a  pack  of  cards  on 
Christmas  eve.  Great  is  the  contention  of  holly 
and  ivy,  whether  master  or  dame  wears  the 
breeches.  Dice  and  cards  benefit  the  butler; 
and  if  the  cook  do  not  lack  wit,  he  will  sweetly 
lick  his  fingers." 

I  was  roused  from  this  fit  of  luxurious  medita 
tion  by  a  shout  from  my  little  travelling  compan 
ions.  They  had  been  looking  out  of  the  coach- 
windows  for  the  last  few  miles,  recognizing  every 
tree  and  cottage  as  they  approached  home,  and 
aow  there  was  a  general  burst  of  joy.  "  There  'a 


THE  STAGE-COACH.  259 

John!  ami  there's  old  Carlo!  and  there's  Ban 
tam  ! "  cried  the  happy  little  rogues,  clapping 
their  hands. 

At  the  end  of  a,  lane  there  was  an  old  sober 
looking  servant  in  livery,  waiting  for  them ;  he 
was  accompanied  by  a  superannuated  pointer,  and 
by  the  redoubtable  Bantam,  a  little  old  rat  of  a 
pony,  with  a  shaggy  mane  and  long  rusty  tail 
who  stood  dozing  quietly  by  the  roadside,  littk 
dreaming  of  the  bustlmg  times  that  awaited  him. 

I  was  pleased  to  see  the  fondness  with  which 
the  little  fellows  leaped  about  the  steady  old  foot 
man,  and  hugged  the  pointer :  who  wriggled  his 
whole  body  for  joy.  But  Bantam  was  the  great 
object  of  interest ;  all  wanted  to  mount  at  once, 
and  it  was  with  some  difficulty  that  John  arranged 
that  they  should  ride  by  turns,  and  the  eldest 
should  ride  first, 

Off  they  set  at  last ;  one  on  the  pony,  with  the 
dog  bounding  and  barking  before  him,  and  the 
others  holding  John's  hands ;  both  talking  at  once, 
and  overpowering  him  with  questions  about  home, 
and  with  school  anecdotes.  I  looked  after  them 
with  a  feeling  in  which  I  do  not  know  whether 
pleasure  or  melancholy  predominated  ;  for  I  was 
reminded  of  those  days  when,  like  them,  1  had 
neither  known  care  nor  sorrow,  and  a  holiday  was 
the  summit  of  earthly  felicity.  We  stopped  a  few 
moments  afterwards  to  water  the  horses,  and  on 
resuming  our  route,  a  turn  of  the  road  brought  us 
in  sight  of  a  neat  country-seat.  I  could  just  dis 
tinguish  the  forms  of  a  lady  and  two  young  girls 
in  the  portico,  and  I  saw  my  little  comrades,  with 


2GO  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Bantam,  Carlo,  and  old  John,  trooping  along  the 
carriage-road.  I  leaned  out  of  the  coach- window, 
iri  hopes  of  witnessing  the  happy  meeting,  but  a 
grove  of  trees  shut  it  from  my  sight. 

In  the  evening  we  reached  a  village  where  I 
had  determined  to  pass  the  night.  As  we  drove 
into  the  great  gateway  of  the  inn,  I  saw  on  one 
side  the  light  of  a  rousing  kitchen-fire  beaming 
through  a  window.  I  entered,  and  admired,  for 
the  hundredth  time,  that  picture  of  convenience, 
neatness,  and  broad  honest  enjoyment,  the  kitchen 
of  an  English  inn.  It  was  of  spacious  dimensions, 
hung  round  with  copper  and  tin  vessels  highly  pol« 
islied,  and  decorated  here  and  there  with  a  Christ- 
raas  green.  Hams,  tongues,  and  flitches  of  bacon, 
were  suspended  from  the  ceiling;  a  smoke-jack 
made  its  ceaseless  clunking  beside  the  fireplace,  and 
a  clock  ticked  in  one  corner.  A  well-scoured  deal 
table  extended  along  one  side  of  the  kitchen,  with 
a  cold  round  of  beef,  and  other  hearty  viands  upon 
it,  over  which  two  foaming  tankards  of  ale  seemed 
mounting  guard.  Travellers  of  inferior  order  were 
preparing  to  attack  this  stout  repast,  while  others 
gat  smoking  and  gossiping  over  their  ale  en  two 
high-backed  oaken  settles  beside  the  fire.  Trim 
housemaids  were  hurrying  backwards  and  for 
wards  under  the  directions  of  a  fresh,  bustling 
landlady ;  but  still  seizing  an  occasional  moment 
to  exchange  a  flippant  word,  and  have  a  rallying 
laugh,  with  the  group  round  the  fire.  The  scene 
completely  realized  Poor  Robin's  humble  idea  of 
the  comforts  of  mid-winter. 

Now  trees  their  leafy  hats  do  hear 
To  reverence  Winter's  silver  hair; 


THE  STAGE-COACH.  26 1 

A  handsome  hostess,  merry  host, 
A  pot  of  ale  now  anil  a  toast, 
Tobacco  and  a  good  coal-h're, 
Are  things  this  season  dotli  require.* 

I  had  not  been  long  at  the  inn  when  n  postchaise 
drove  up  to  the  door.  A  young  gentleman  slept 
out,  and  by  thy  light  of  the  lamps  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  countenance  which  I  thought  I  knew 
I  moved  forward  to  get  a  nearer  view,  when  hia 
eye  caught  mine.  1  was  not  mistaken ;  it  was 
I? rank  ]>racebridge,  a  sprightly,  good-humored 
young  fellow,  with  whom  I  had  once  travelled  on 
the  continent.  Our  meeting  was  extremely  cor 
dial,  for  the  countenance  of  an  old  fellow-traveller 
always  brings  up  the  recollection  of  a  thousand 
pleasant  scenes,  odd  adventures,  and  excellent 
jokes.  To  discuss  all  these  in  a  transient  inter 
view  at  an  inn  was  impossible;  and  finding  that  I 
was  not  pressed  for  time,  and  was  merely  making 
a  tour  of  observation,  he  insisted  that  I  should 
give  him  a  day  or  two  at  his  father's  country-seat, 
to  which  he  was  going  to  pass  the  holidays,  and 
which  lay  at  a  few  miles'  distance,  "  It  is  better 
than  eating  a  solitary  Christmas  dinner  at  an  inn," 
said  he ;  "  and  I  can  assure  you  of  a  hearty  wel 
come  in  something  of  the  old-fashioned  style." 
His  reasoning  was  cogent,  and  I  must  confess  the 
preparation  I  had  seen  for  universal  festivity  and 
social  enjoyment  had  made  me  feel  a  little  impa 
tient  of  my  loneliness.  I  closed,  therefne,  at 
once,  with  his  invitation  ;  the  chaise  dro\e  up  to 
the  door,  and  in  a  few  moments  I  was  on  iry 
to  the  family  mansion  of  the  Bracebridges. 

*  Poor  Robin's  Almanac,  1G8A. 


CHRISTMAS   EVE. 


Saint  Francis  and  Saint  Benedight 
Blesse  this  house  from  wicked  wight* 
From  the  night-mare  and  the  goblin, 
That  is  higlit  good  fellow  liobin; 
Keep  it  from  all  evil  spirits, 
Fairies,  weezels,  rats,  and  ferrets. 

From  curlew  time 

To  the  iiext  prime. 

CARTWRIGJIT. 

T  was  a  brilliant  moonlight  night,  but  ca 
tremely  cold  ;  our  chaise  whirled  rapidly 
over  the  frozen  ground ;  the  post-boy 
smacked  his  whip  incessantly,  and  a  part  of  the 
time  his  horses  were  on  a  gallop.  "He  knows 
where  he  is  going,"  said  my  companion,  laughing, 
"and  is  eager  to  arrive  in  time  for  some  of  the 
merriment  and  good  cheer  of  the  servants'  hall. 
|  IMy  father,  you  must  know,  is  a  bigoted  devotee 
(  of  the  old  school,  and  prides  himself  upon  keeping 
up  something  of  old  English  hospitality.  He  is  a 
tolerable  specimen  of  what  you  will  rarely  meet 
with  nowadays  in  its  purity,  the  old  English  coun 
try  gentleman  ;  for  our  men  of  fortune  spend  so 
much  of  their  time  in  town,  and  fashion  is  carried 
so  much  into  the  country,  that  the  strong  rich  pe 
culiarities  of  ancient  rural  life  are  almost  polished 
nway.  My  lather,  however,  from  early  years, 
262 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  2C3 

took  honest  Peacham  *  for  his  text-book,  instead 
of  Giesterfield ;  he  determined  in  his  own  mind 
that  there  was  no  condition  more  truly  honorable 
and  enviable  than  that  of  a  country  gentleman  on 
his  paternal  lands,  and  therefore  passes  the  whole 
of  his  time  on  his  estate.  He  is  a  strenuous  advo 
cate  for  the  revival  of  the  old  rural  games  and  holi 
day  observances,  and  is  deeply  read  in  the  writers, 
ancient  and  modern,  who  have  treated  on  the  sub 
ject.  Indeed  his  favorite  range  of  reading  is  among 
the  authors  who  flourished  at  least  two  centuries 
since ;  who,  he  insists,  wrote  and  thought  more 
like  true  Englishmen  than  any  of  their  successors. 
He  even  regrets  sometimes  that  he  had  not  been 
born  a  few  centuries  earlier,  when  England  was 
itself,  and  had  its  peculiar  manners  and  customs.^ 
As  he  lives  at  some  distance  from  the  main  roaH^ 
m  rather  a  lonely  part  of  the  country,  without  any 
rival  gentry  near  him,  he  has  that  most  enviable 
of  all  blessings  to  an  Englishman,  an  opportunity 
of  indulging  the  bent  of  his  own  humor  without 
molestation.  Being  representative  of  the  oldest 
family  in  the  neighborhood,  and  a  great  part  of 
the  peasantry  being  his  tenants,  he  is  much  looked 
up  to,  and,  in  general,  is  known  simply  by  the  ap 
pellation  of  '  The  Squire ' ;  a  title  which  has  been 
accorded  to  the  head  of  the  family  since  time  im 
memorial.  I  think  it  best  to  give  you  these  hinta 
about  my  worthy  old  father,  to  prepare  you  for  any 
eccentricities  that  might  otherwise  appear  absurd." 
We  had  passed  for  some  time  along  the  wall  ol 
a  park,  and  at  length  the  chaise  stopped  at  the 
*  Peacham's  Complete  Gentleman,  1G22. 


264  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

gate.  It  was  in  a  heavy  magnificent  old  style,  >f 
iron  bars,  fancifully  wrought  at  top  into  flourishes 
and  flowers.  The  huge  square  columns  that  sup 
ported  the  gate  were  surmounted  by  the  family 
crest.  Close  adjoining  was  the  porter's  lodge, 
sheltered  under  dark  fir-trees,  and  almost  buried  it 
shrubbery. 

The  post-boy  rang  a  large  porter's  bell,  whici 
resounded  through  the  still  frosty  air,  and  was  an 
swered  by  the  distant  barking  of  dogs,  with  which 
the  mansion-house  seemed  garrisoned.  An  old 
woman  immediately  appeared  at  the  gate.  A* 
the  moonlight  fell  strongly  upon  her,  I  had  a  full 
view  of  a  little  primitive  dame,  dressed  very  much 
in  the  antiqrae  taste,  with  a  neat  kerchief  and 
stomacher,  and  her  silver  hair  peeping  from  un 
der  a  cap  of  snowy  whiteness.  She  came  cour- 
tesying  forth,  with  many  expressions  of  simple  jov 
at  seeing  her  young  master.  Her  husband,  it 
seemed,  was  up  at  the  house  keeping  Christmas 
eve  in  the  servants'  hall ;  they  could  not  do  with 
out  him,  as  he  was  the  best  hand  at  a  song  and 
story  in  the  household. 

My  friend  proposed  that  we  should  alight  and 
walk  through  the  park  to  the  hall,  which  was  al 
no  great  distance,  while  the  chaise  should  follow 
on.  Our  road  wound  through  a  noble  avenue  of 
trees,  among  the  naked  brandies  of  which  the 
moon  glittered,  as  she  rolled  through  the  deep 
vault  Df  a  cloudless  sky.  The  lawn  beyond  was 
sheeted  with  a  slight  covering  of  snow,  which 
here  and  there  sparkled  as  the  moonbeams  caught 
ft  frosty  crystal ;  and  at  a  distance  might  bo  seen 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  265 

a  thiii  transparent  vapor,  stealing  np  from  the  IOTI 
grounds,  and  threatening  gradually  to  shroud  thf 
landscape. 

I  lOycompanion  looked  around  him  with  trans* 
'port :  "  How  often,"  said  he,  "  have  I  scampered 
up  this  avenue,  on  returning  home  on  school  va« 
catiDiis  !  How  often  have  I  played  under  these 
trees  when  a  boy !  I  fuel  a  degree  of  iilial  rev 
erence  for  them,  as  we  look  up  to  those  who  have 
cherished  us  in  childhood.  My  father  was  al 
ways  scrupulous  in  exacting  our  holidays,  and 
having  us  around  him  on  family  festivals.  He 
used  to  direct  and  superintend  our  games  with 
the  strictness  that  some  parents  do  the  studies  of 
their  children.  He  was  very  particular  that  we 
should  play  the  old  English  games  according  to 
their  original  form ;  and  consulted  old  books  for 
precedent  and  authority  for  every  *  memo  disport ' ; 
yet  I  assure  you  there  never  was  pedantry  so 
delightful.  It  was  the  policy  of  the  good  old 
gentleman  to  make  his  children  feel  that  home 
was  the  happiest  place  in  the  world ;  and  I  value 
this  delicious  home-feeling  as  .one  of  the  choicest 
gifts  a  parent  could  bestow."  | 

We  were  interrupted  by  the  clamor  of  a  troop 
of  dogs  of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  "  mongrel,  puppy, 
irhelp,  and  hound,  and  curs  of  low  degree,"  that, 
distiu  bed  by  the  ring  of  the  porter's  bell  and 
fjic  rattling  of  the  chaise,  came  bounding,  opea- 
•ncuthed,  across  the  lawn. 

" The  little  dogs  ani  all, 

Tray  Blanch,  und  Sweetheart,  see,  they  bark  at  mo !  " 

cried  Braccbridge,  laughing.    At  the  sound  of  his 


266  THE  SKETCHBOOK. 

voice,  the  bark  was  changed  into  a  yelp  of  deligb  . 
and  in  a  moment  he  was  surrounded  and  almost 
overpowered  by  the  caresses  of  the  faithful  ani 
mals. 

We' had  now  come  in  full  view  of  the  old  fam 
ily  mansion,  partly  thrown  in  deep  shadow,  and 
partly  lit  up  by  the  cool  moonshine.  It  was  an 
irregular  building,  of  some  magnitude,  and  seemed 
to  be  of  the  architecture  of  different  periods. — 
One  wing  was  evidently  very  ancient,  with  heavy 
Btone-shafted  bow-windows  jutting  out  and  over 
run  with  ivy,  from  among  the  foliage  of  which 
the  small  diamond-shaped  panes  of  glass  glittered 
with  the  moonbeams.  The  rest  of  the  house  was 
in  the  French  taste  of  Charles  the  Second's  time, 
having  been  repaired  and  altered,  as  my  friend 
told  me,  by  one  of  his  ancestors,  who  returned 
with  that  monarch  at  the  Restoration.  The 
grounds  about  the  house  were  laid  out  in  the  old 
formal  manner  of  artificial  flower-beds,  clipped 
shrubberies,  raised  terraces,  and  heavy  stone 
balustrades,  ornamented  with  urns,  a  leaden  statue 
or  two,  and  a  jet  of  water.  The  old  gentleman,  I 
was  told,  was  extremely  careful  to  preserve  this 
obsolete  finery  in  all  its  original  state.  lie  ad 
mired  this  fashion  in  gardening ;  it  had  an  air  of 
magnificence,  was  courtly  and  noble,  and  befitting 
good  old  family  style.  The  boasted  imitation  of 
mature  in  modern  gardening  had  sprung  up  with 
modern  republican  notions,  but  did  not  suit  a  mo 
narchical  government ;  it  smacked  of  the  levelling 
system.  I  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  intro- 
ducti  m  of  politics  mto  gardening,  though  I  ex- 


CHRISTMAS  EYE.  267 

pressed  some  apprehension  that  I  should  find  the 
old  gentleman  rather  intolerant  in  his  creed, 
Frank  assured  me,  however,  that  it  was  almost 
the  only  instance  in  which  he  had  ever  heard  hia 
father  meddle  with  politics ;  and  he  believed  thai 
he  had  got  this  notion  from  a  member  of  parlia 
ment  who  once  passed  a  few  weeks  with  him. 
The  squire  was  glad  of  any  argument  to  defend 
Ins  clipped  yew-trees  and  formal  terraces,  which 
had  been  occasionally  attacked  by  modern  land 
scape  gardeners. 

As  we  approached  the  house,  we  heard  the 
sound  of  music,  and  now  and  then  a  burst  of 
laughter,  from  one  end  of  the  building.  This, 
Bracebridge  said,  must  proceed  from  the  servants' 
hall,  where  a  great  deal  of  revelry  was  permitted, 
and  even  encouraged  by  the  squire,  throughout 
the  twelve  days  of  Christmas,  provided  every 
thing  was  done  conformably  to  ancient  usage. 
Here  were  kept  up  the  old  games  of  hoodman 
blind,  shoe  the  wild  mare,  hot  cockles,  steal  the 
white  loaf,  bob  apple,  and  snap-dragon ;  the  Yule 
clog  and  Christmas  candle  were  regularly  burnt, 
and  the  mistletoe,  with  its  white  berries,  hung  up, 
to  the  imminent  peril  of  all  the  pretty  house 
maids.* 

So  intent  were  the  servants  upon  their  sports 
that  we  had  to  ring  repeatedly  before  we  could 
make  ourselves  heard.  On  our  arrival  being  an 
nounced,  the  Squire  came  out  to  receive  us,  ao 

*  The  mistletoe  is  still  hung  up  in  farm-houses  and  kitch 
tons  at  Christinas;  and  the  youn^  men  have  the  privilege  of 
kissing  the  girls  under  it,  plucking  each  time  a  berry  from  th« 
When  the  berries  are  all  plucked,  the  privilege  ceases 


2G&  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

companied  by  his  two  other  sons :  one  a  young 
officer  in  the  army,  home  on  leave  of  absence 
the  other  an  Oxonian,  just  from  the  university, 
The  Squire  was  a  fine  healthy-looking  old  gentle 
man,  with  silver  hair  curling  lightly  round  an 
open  florid  countenance ;  in  which  the  physiogno 
mist,  with  the  advantage,  like  myself,  of  a  previ 
ous  hint  or  two,  might  discover  a  singular  mixt 
ure  of  whim  and  benevolence. 

The  family  meeting  was  warm  and  affection 
ate  :  as  the  evening  was  far  advanced,  the  Squiro 
would  not  permit  us  to  change  our  travelling 
dresses,  but  ushered  us  at  once  to  the  company, 
which  was  assembled  in  a  large  old-fashioned  hall. 
Jt  was  composed  of  different  branches  of  a  numer 
ous  family  connection,  where  there  were  the  usual 
proportion,  of  old  uncles  and  aunts,  comfortable 
married  dames,  superannuated  spinsters,  blooming 
country  cousins,  half-fledged  striplings,  and  bright- 
eyed  boarding-school  hoydens.  They  were  vari 
ously  occupied  :  some  at  a  round  game  of  cards  ; 
others  conversing  arojjnd  the  fireplace ;  at  one 
end  of  the  hall  was  a  gro.up  of  the  young  folks, 
some  nearly  grqwn  up,  others  of  a  more  tender 
and  budding  age,  fully  engrossed  by  a  merry 
game  ;  and  a  profusion  of  wooden  horses,  penny 
trumpets,  and  tattered  dolls,  about  the  floor, 
allowed  traces  of  a  troop  of  little  fairy  beings, 
who,  having  frolicked  through  a  happy  day,  had 
been  carried  otf  to  slumber  through  a  peaceful 
night. 

While  the  mutual  greetings  were  going  on  be 
tween  young  liracebridge  and  Ids  relatives,  I  had 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  269 

time  to  scan  the  apartment.  I  have  called  it  a 
hall,  for  so  it  had  certainly  been  in  old  times,  and 
the  Squire  had  evidently  endeavored  to  restore  it 
to  something  of  its  primitive  state.  Over  the 
heavy  projecting  fireplace  was  suspended  a  pict 
ure  ot'  a  warrior  in  armor,  standing  by  a  white 
horse,  and  on  the  opposite  wall  hung  a  helmet, 
buckler,  and  lance.  At  one  end  an  enormous 
pair  of  antlers  were  inserted  in  the  wall,  the 
branches  serving  as  hooks  on  which  to  suspend 
hats,  whips,  and  spurs ;  and  in  the  corners  of  the 
apartment  were  fowling-pieces,  iishing-rods,  and 
other  sporting  implements.  The  furniture  was 
of  the  cumbrous  workmanship  of  former  days, 
though  some  articles  of  modern  convenience  had 
been  added,  and  the  oaken  iloor  had  been  car 
peted;  so  that  the  whole  presented  an  odd  mixt 
ure  of  parlor  and  hall. 

The  grate  had  been  removed  from  the  wide 
overwhelming  fireplace,  to  make  way  for  a  fire  of 
wood,  in  the  midst  of  which  was  an  enormous 
log  glowing  and  blazing,  and  sending  forth  a  vast 
volume  of  light  and  heat :  this  I  understood  was 
the  Yule  clog,  which  the  squire  was  particular 
ji  having  brought  in  and  illumined  on  a  Christ 
mas  eve,  according  to  ancient  custom.* 

*  The  Yule  cloy  is  a  great  log  of  wood,  sometimes  the  root 
Kf  a  tree,  brought  into  the  house  with  great  ceremony,  on 
(Jhrhtmas  eve,  laid  in  the  fireplace,  and  lighted  with  the 
brand  of  last  year's  flog.  While  it  lasted,  there  was  pi  eat 
Blinking,  sing'ing,  and  telling  of  tales.  Sometimes  it  waa 
accompanied  by  Christmas  candles;  but  in  the  cottage?  lha 
only  light  was*  from  the  ruddy  blaze  of  the  great  wood  .fiie* 
The  Yule  clog  was  to  bum  all  night;  if  it  went  out,  it  waj 
tonsidore  i  a  sign  of  ill-luck. 

Herrick  men'icas  itiu  oue  c-f  his  songs:  —  • 


270  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

It  was  really  delightful  to  see  the  >ld  sqtmo 
seated  in  his  hereditary  elbow-chair,  by  the  hospi 
table  fireside  of  his  ancestors,  and  looking  around 
him  like  the  sun  of  a  system,  beaming  warmth 
and  gladness  to  every  heart.  Even  the  very  dog 
that  lay  stretched  at  his  feet,  as  he  lazily  shifted 
his  position  and  yawned,  would  look  fondly  up  in 
liis  master's  face,  wag  his  tail  against  the  floor, 
and  stretch  himself  again  to  sleep,  confident  of 
kindness  and  protection.  There  is  an  emanation 
from  the  heart  in  genuine  hospitality  which  can 
not  be  described,  but  is  immediately  felt,  and 
puts  the  stranger  at  once  at  his  case.  I  had  not 
been  seated  many  minutes  by  the  comfortable 
hearth  of  the  worthy  old  cavalier,  before  I  found 
myself  as  much  at  home  as  if  I  had  been  one  of 
the  family. 

Supper  was  announced  shortly  after  our  ar 
rival.  It  was  served  up  in  a  spacious  oaken 
chamber,  the  panels  of  which  shone  with  wax, 
and  around  which  were  several  family  portraits 
decorated  with  holly  and  ivy.  Besides  the  ac 
customed  lights,  two  great  wax  tapers,  called 

"  Come,  bring  with  a  noise, 

My  nierrie,  nierrie  boyes, 
The  Christinas  log  to  the  firing; 

While  mv  good  dame,  she 

Bids  ye  all  be  free, 
And  drink  to  your  hearts  desiring." 

The  Yule  clog  is  still  burnt  in  many  farm-houses  and  kilcll* 
ens  in  England,  particularly  in  the  north,  and  there  are  aev- 
era.  superstitions  connected  with  it  among  the  peasantry.  If 
»  squinting  person  come  to  the  house  while  it  id  l-urnrng,  01 
B  person  barefooted,  it  is  considered  an  ill  omen.  The  brand 
remaining  from  the  Yule  clog  is  carefully  put  a  way  to  light 
ie  next  year's  Christinas  fire. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  27] 

Christmas  candles,  wreathed  with  greens,  were 
placed  on  a  highly-polished  beaufet  among  tha 
family  plate.  The  table  was  abundantly  spread 
with  substantial  fare ;  but  the  Squire  made  hia 
supper  of  frumenty,  a  dish  made  of  wheat-cakes 
boiled  in  milk,  with  rich  spices,  being  a  standing 
dish  in  old  times  for  Christmas  eve. 

I  was  happy  to  find  my  old  friend,  minced-pie, 
in  the  retinue  of  the  feast;  and  finding  him  to 
be  perfectly  orthodox,  and  that  I  need  not  bo 
ashamed  of  my  predilection,  I  greeted  him  with 
all  the  warmth  wherewith  we  usually  greet  an 
old  and  very  genteel  ?cquaintance. 

The  mirth  of  the  company  was  greatly  pro 
moted  by  the  humors  of  an  eccentric  personage 
whom  Mr.  Bracebridge  always  addressed  with 
the  quaint  appellation  of  Master  Simon.  He  wa3 
a  tight  brisk  little  man,  with  the  air  of  an  arrant 
old  bachelor.  His  nose  was  shaped  like  the  bill 
of  a  parrot ;  his  face  slightly  pitted  with  tho 
Bmall-pox,  with  a  dry  perpetual  bloom  on  it,  like 
a  frostbitten  leaf  in  autumn.  He  had  an  eye  of 
great  quickness  and  vivacity,  with  a  drollery  and 
lurking  waggery  of  expression  that  was  irresisti 
ble,  lie  was  evidently  the  wit  of  the  family, 
dealing  very  much  in  sly  jokes  and  inmicndoea 
with  the  ladies,  and  making  infinite  merriment 
by  harping  upon  old  themes ;  which,  unfortunately, 
my  ignorance  of  the  family  chronicles  did  not 
permit  me  to  enjoy.  It  seemed  to  be  his  great 
delight  during  supper  to  keep  a  young  girl  next 
him  in  a  continual  agony  of  stifled  laughter,  io 
spite  of  her  awe  of  the  reproving  looks  of  her 


272  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

mother,  who  sat  opposite.  Indeed,  he  was  the  idol 
of  the  younger  part  of  the  company,  who  laughed 
at  everything  he  said  or  did.  and  at  every  turn 
of  his  countenance  ;  I  could  not  wonder  at  it ;  for 
he  must  have  been  a  miracle  of  accomplishments 
in  their  eyes.  He  could  imitate  Punch  and  JuJy; 
make  an  old  woman  of  his  hand,  with  the  assist 
ance  of  a,  burnt  cork  and  pocket-handkerchief; 
and  cut  an  orange  into  such  a  ludicrous  carica 
ture,  that  the  young  folks  were  ready  to  die  with 
laughing. 

I  was  let  briefly  into  his  history  by  Frank 
Bracebridge.  He  was  an  old  bachelor,  of  a  small 
independent  income,  which,  by  careful  management, 
was  sufficient  for  all  his  wants.  He  revolved 
through  the  family  system  like  a  vagrant  comet 
in  its  orbit ;  sometimes  visiting  one  branch,  and 
sometimes  another  quite  remote ;  as  is  often  the 
case  with  gentlemen  of  extensive  connections  and 
small  fortunes  in  England.  He  had  a  chirping 
buoyant  disposition,  always  enjoying  the  present 
moment ;  and  his  frequent  change  of  scene  and 
-jompany  prevented  his  acquiring  those  rusty  un 
accommodating  habits,  with  which  old  bachelors 
we  so  uncharitably  charged.  He  was  a  complete 
family  chronicle,  being  versed  in  the  genealogy, 
history,  and  intermarriages  of  the  whole  house  of 
Bracebridge,  which  made  him  a  great  favorite 
with  the  old  folks ;  he  was  a  beau  of  all  the  elder 
ladies  and  superannuated  spinsters,  among  whom 
he  was  habitually  considered  rather  a  young  fel 
low,  and  he  was  master  of  the  revels  among  the 
children ;  so  that  there  was  not  a  more  popular 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  273 

being  in  the  sphere  in  which  he  moved  than.  Mr. 
Simon  Bracebridge.  Of  late  years,  he  had  re 
sided  almost  entirely  with  the  Squire,  to  whom 
he  had  become  a  factotum,  and  whom  he  partic 
ularly  delighted  by  jumping  with  his  humor  in 
respect  to  old  times,  and  by  having  a  scrap  of  an 
old  song  to  suit  every  occasion.  We  had  pres- 
cntly  a  specimen  of  his  last-mentioned  talent ;  for 
no  sooner  was  supper  removed,  and  spiced  wines 
and  other  beverages  peculiar  to  the  season  in 
troduced,  than  Master  Simon  was  called  on  for 
a  good  old  Christmas  song.  He  bethought  him 
self  for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a  sparkle  of 
the  eye,  and  a  voice  that  was  by  no  means  bad, 
excepting  that  it  ran  occasionally  into  a  falsetto, 
like  the  notes  of  a  split  reed,  he  quavered  forth 
t.  quaint  old  clitiy. 

"  Xow  Christmas  is  come, 

Let  us  beat  up  the  drum, 
And  call  all  our  neighbors  together, 

And  when  they  appear, 

Let  us  make  them  such  cheer, 
As  will  keep  out  the  wind  and  the  weather,"  etc. 

The  supper  had  disposed  every  one  to  gayety 
and  an  old  harper  was  summoned  from  the  ser 
vants'  hall,  where  he  had  been  strumming  all  the 
evening,  and  to  all  appearance  comforting  himself 
\yith    some   of  the    Squire's   home-brewed.     He 
ttas  a  kind  of  hanger-on,  I  was  told,  of  the  es 
tablishment,  and,  though  ostensibly  a  resident  of 
the  village,  was  oftener  to  be  found  in  the  Squire's 
kitchen  than  his  own  home,  the  old   gentleman 
being  fond  of  the  sound  of  "harp  in  hall." 

The  dance,  like  most  dances  after  supper,  waa 
18 


274  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

B  merry  one ;  some  of  the  older  folks  joined  ii 
it,  and  the  Squire  himself  figured  down  several 
couple  with  a  partner,  with  whom  he  affirmed  he 
had  danced  at  every  Christmas  for  nearly  half  a 
century.  Master  Simon,  who  seemed  to  he  a 
hind  of  connecting  link  between  the  oid  times 
and  the  new,  and  to  be  witha1  a  little  antiquated 
in  the  taste  of  his  accomplishments,  evidently 
piqued  himself  on  his  dancing,  and  was  endeavor 
ing  to  gain  credit  by  the  heel  and  toe,  rigadoon, 
and  other  graces  of  the  ancient  school ;  but  he 
had  unluckily  assorted  himself  with  a  little  romp 
ing  girl  from  boarding-school,  who,  by  her  wild 
vivacity,  kept  him  continually  on  the  stretch,  and 
defeated  all  his  sober  attempts  at  elegance :  — 
such  are  the  ill-assorted  matches  to  which  antiquo 
gentlemen  are  unfortunately  prone  ! 

The  young  Oxonian,  on  the  contrary,  had  led 
out  one  of  his  maiden  aunts,  on  whom  the  rogue 
played  a  thousand  little  knaveries  with  impunity : 
he  was  full  of  practical  jokes,  and  his  delight  was 
to  tease  his  aunts  and  cousins ;  yet,  like  all  mad 
cap  youngsters,  he  was  a  universal  favorite  among 
the  women.  The  most  interesting  couple  in  tho 
dance  was  the  young  officer  and  a  ward  of  tho 
Squire's,  a  beautiful  blushing  girl  of  seventeen. 
From  several  shy  glances  which  I  had  noticed 
in  the  course  of  the  evening,  I  suspected  there 
was  a  little  kindness  growing  up  between  them , 
and,  indeed,  the  young  soldier  was  just  the  hero 
to  captivate  a  romantic  girl.  He  was  tall,  slender 
and  handsome,  and,  like  most  young  British  offi 
cers  of  late  years,  had  picked  up  various  srnai' 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  275 

lecomplishmcnts  on  the  continent;  —  he  could 
talk  French  and  Italian  —  draw  landscapes  —  sing 
very  tolerably  —  dance  divinely  ;  but,  above  all, 
he  had  been  wounded  at  Waterloo  :  —  what  girl 
of  seventeen,  well  read  in  poetry  and  romance, 
could  resist  such  a  mirror  of  chivalry  and  per 
fection  ! 

The  moment  the  dance  was  over,  he  caught  up 
a  guitar,  and,  Killing  against  the  old  marble  fire 
place,  iii  an  attitude  which  I  am  half  inclined  to 
suspect  was  studied,  began  the  little  French  air 
of  the  Troubadour.  The  Squire,  however,  ex 
claimed  against  having  anything  on  Christmas 
eve  but  good  old  English  ;  upon  which  the  young 
minstrel,  casting  up  his  eye  for  a  moment,  as  if 
in  an  effort  of  memory,  struck  into  another  strain, 
and,  with  a  charming  air  of  gallantry,  gave  Her 
rick's  "  Night-Piece  to  Julia." 

Tier  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee. 
The  shooting  stars  atteud  thee, 

And  the  elves  also, 

Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  tire,  befriend  thee. 

"  No  Will-o'-the-Wisp  mislight  theo: 
Nor  snake  nor  slow-worm  bite  thee; 

Hut  on,  on  thy  way, 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there  is  none  to  affright  thoe. 

Then  let  not  the  dark  thoe  cumber; 
What  though  the  moon  does  slumber. 

The  stars  of  the  night 

Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  clear  without  number. 

Then,  Julia,  let  mo,  woe  thee, 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me, 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silvery  feet, 
My  soul  I  'iTpour  into  thee. 


276  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

The  song  might  or  might  not  have  been  in 
tended  in  compliment  to  the  fair  Julia,  for  so  1 
found  his  partner  was  called  ;  she,  however,  waa 
certainly  unconscious  of  any  such  application,  for 
she  never  looked  at  the  singer,  but  kept  her  eyes 
cast  upon  the  floor.  Her  face  was  suffused,  il 
is  true,  with  a  beautiful  blush,  and  there  was 
a  gentle  heaving  of  the  bosom,  but  all  that  was 
doubtless  caused  by  the  exercise  of  the  dance  ; 
indeed,  so  great  was  her  indifference,  that  she 
amused  herself  with  plucking  to  pieces  a  choice 
bouquet  of  hot-house  flowers,  and  by  the  time  the 
song  was  concluded  the  nosegay  lay  in  ruins  on 
the  floor. 

The  party  now  broke  np  for  the  night  with 
the  kind-hearted  old  custom  of  shaking  hands. 
As  I  passed  through  the  hall,  on  my  way  to  my 
chamber,  the  dying  embers  of  the  Yule  clog  still 
Bent  forth  a  dusky  glow,  and  had  it  not  been  the 
season  when  "  no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad,"  I 
should  have  been  half  tempted  to  steal  from  my 
room  at  midnight,  and  peep  whether  the  fairies 
might  not  be  at  their  revels  about  the  hearth. 

ily  chamber  was  in  the  old  part  of  the  man 
sion,  the  ponderous  furniture  of  which  might  have 
been  fabricated  in  the  days  of  the  giants.  The 
room  was  panelled  with  cornices  of  heavy  carved 
work,  in  whkh  flowers  and  grotesque  laces  were 
strangely  intermingled  ;  and  a  row  of  black-look 
ing  portraits  stared  mournfully  at  me  from  the 
walls.  The  bed  was  of  rich,  though  faded  dam 
ask,  with  a  lofty  tester,  and  stood  in  a  niche  op 
posite  a  bow- window.  I  had  scarcely  got  into 


CHRISTMAS  EVE.  277 

bed  when  a  strain  of  music  seemed  to  break  forth 
in  the  air  just  below  the  window.  I  listened, 
and  found  it  proceeded  from  a  band,  which  I 
concluded  to  be  the  waits  from  some  neighboring 
village.  They  went  round  the  house,  playing  un 
der  the  windows.  I  drew  aside  the  curtains  to 
hear  them  more  distinctly.  The  moonbeams  fell 
through  the  upper  part  of  the  casement,  partially 
lighting  up  the  antiquated  apartment.  The  sounds, 
as  they  receded,  became  more  soft  and  aerial,  and 
seemed  to  accord  with  the  quiet  and  moonlight 
I  listened  and  listened,  —  they  became  more  and 
more  tender  and  remote,  and,  as  they  gradually 
died  away,  my  head  sunk  upon  the  pillow,  and 
I  fell  asleep. 


CHRISTMAS   DAY. 


Dark  and  du'l  night,  flie  hence 
And  give  the  honor  to  this  day 
That  sees  December  turn'd  to  "May. 

Why  does  the  chilling  winter's  niorne 
Smile  like  a  field  beset  with  corn? 
Or  smell  like  to  a  meade  new-shorne, 
Thus  on  the  sudden?  —  Come  and  sec 
The  cause  why  things  thus  fragrant  be. 

HE  URIC*. 

>HEN  I  woke  the  next  morning,  it  seemed 
as  if  all  the  events  of  the  preceding  even 
ing  had  been  a  dream,  and  nothing  but 
the  identity  of  the  ancient  chamber  convinced 
me  of  their  reality.  While  I  lay  musing  on  my 
pillow,  I  heard  the  sound  of  little  feet  pattering 
outside  of  the  door,  and  a  whispering  consultation. 
Presently  a  choir  of  small  voices  chanted  forth 
an  old  Cliristmas  carol,  the  burden  of  which 
was  — 

"  Kejoice,  oar  Saviour  he  was  born 
On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning." 

1  rose  softly,  slipt  on  my  clothes,  opened  the 
door  suddenly,  and  beheld  one  of  the  most  beau 
tiful  little  fairy  groups  that  a  painter  could  imag 
ine.  It  consisted  of  a  boy  and  two  girls,  the 

278 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  279 

eldest  not  muit3  than  six,  and  lovely  as  seraphs. 
They  \vere  going  the  rounds  of  the  house,  and 
singing  at  every  charnber-door ;  but  my  sudden 
appearance  frightened  them  into  mute  bashfulness. 
They  remained  for  a  moment  playing  on  their 
lips  with  their  fingers,  and  now  and  then  stealing 
ft  shy  glance  from  under  their  eyebrows,  until,  aa 
if  by  one  impulse,  they  scampered  away,  and  as 
they  turned  an  angle  of  the  gallery,  I  heard  them 
laughing  in  triumph  at  their  escape. 

Everything  conspired  to  produce  kind  and 
happy  feelings  in  this  stronghold  of  old-fashioned 
hospitality.  The  window  of  my  chamber  looked 
out  upon  what  in  summer  would  have  been  a 
beautiful  landscape.  There  was  a  sloping  lawn, 
a  fine  stream  winding  at  the  foot  of  it,  and  a  tract 
of  park  beyond,  with  noble  clumps  of  trees,  and 
herds  of  deer.  At  a  distance  was  a  neat  ham 
let,  with  the  smoke  from  the  cottage  -  chimneys 
hanging  over  it ;  and  a  church  with  its  dark  spire 
in  strong  relief  against  the  clear,  cold  sky.  The 
house  was  surrounded  with  evergreens,  according 
to  the.  English  custom,  which  would  have  given 
almost  an  appearance  of  summer ;  but  the  morn 
ing  was  extremely  frosty ;  the  light  vapor  of  tho 
preceding  evening  had  been  precipitated  by  the 
cold,  and  covered  all  the  trees  and  every  blade  of 
grass  with  its  fine  crystallizations.  The  rays  of 
a  bright  morning  sun  had  a  dazzling  effect  among 
tLe  glittering  foliage.  A  robin,  perched  upon 
thti  top  of  a  mountain-ash  that  hung  its  clusters 
of  red  berries  just  before  my  window,  was  basking 
himself  in  the  sunshine,  and  piping  a  few  quern- 


280  WE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

lous  notes ;  and  a  peacock  was  displaying  all  tha 
gljries  of  his  train,  and  strutting  with  the  pride 
and  gravity  of  a  Spanish  grandee,  on  the  terrace- 
walk  below. 

I  had  scarcely  dressed  myself,  when  a  servant 
appeared  to  invite  me  to  family  prayeis.  IIo 
showed  me  the  way  to  a  small  chapel  in  the  old 
wing  of  the  house,  where  I  found  the  principal 
part  of  the  family  already  assembled  in  a  kind  of 
gallery,  furnished  with  cushions,  hassocks,  and 
large  prayer-books  ;  the  servants  were  seated  on 
benches  below.  The  old  gentleman  read  prayers 
from  a  desk  in  front  of  the  gallery,  and  Master 
Simon  acted  as  clerk,  and  made  the  responses  ;  and 
I  must  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  he  acquitted 
himself  with  great  gravity  and  decorum. 

The  service  was  followed  by  a  Christmas  carol, 
which  Mr.  Bracebridge  himself  had  constructed 
from  a  poem  of  his  favorite  author,  Herrick;  and 
it  had  been  adapted  to  an  old  church-melody  Dy 
Master  Simon.  As  there  were  several  good  voices 
among  the  household,  the  effect  was  extremely 
pleasing ;  but  I  was  particularly  gratified  by  the 
exaltation  of  heart,  and  sudden  sally  of  grateful 
feeling,  with  which  the  worthy  Squire  delivered 
one  stanza;  his  eye  glistening,  and  his  voice  ram* 
bling  out  of  all  the  bounds  of  time  and  tune  •- 

"'T  is  them  that  crowrvst  ruy  glittering  hearth 

With  guiltless  mirth, 
And  givest  me  Wassaile  bowles  to  drink 

Spiced  to  the  brink  ; 
Lord,  't  is  thy  plenty-dropping  hand 

That  soiles  my  land  ; 
And  giv'st  me  for  my  bushell  sowne, 

Twie*  ten  for  on*-'' 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  281 

I  afterwards  understood  that  early  morning  ser 
vice  was  read  on  every  Sunday  and  saints'  da? 
throughout  the  }ear,  either  by  Mr.  Bracehridge  or 
by  some  member  of  the  family.  It  was  once  ol 
most  universally  the  case  at  the  scats  of  the  nobiliti 
£jid  gentry  of  England,  and  it  is  much  to  be  re 
gretted  that  the  custom  is  falling  into  neglect ;  foi 
tlu)  dullest  observer  must  be  sensible  of  the  order 
and  serenity  prevalent  in  those  households,  where 
the  occasional  exercise  of  a  beautiful  form  of  wor 
ship  in  the  morning  gives,  as  it  were,  the  key-note 
to  every  temper  for  the  day,  and  attunes  'every 
epirit  to  harmony. 

Our  breakfast  consisted  of  what  the  Squire  de 
nominated  true  old  English  fare.  lie  indulged  in 
some  bitter  lamentations  over  modern  breakfasts 
of  tea  and  toast,  which  he  censured  as  among  the 
causes  of  modern  effeminacy  and  weak  nerves,  and 
the  decline  of  old  English  heartiness ;  and  though 
lie  admitted  them  to  his  table  to  suit  the  palates  of 
his  guests,  yet  there  was  a  brave  display  of  cold 
meats,  wine,  and  ale,  on  the  sideboard. 

After  breakfast  I  walked  about  the  grounds  with 
Frank  Bracebridge  and  Master  Simon,  or,  Mr. 
Simon,  as  he  was  called  by  everybody  but  tho 
Squire.  We  were  escorted  by  a  number  of  gentle 
manlike  dogs,  that  seemed  loungers  about  the  estab 
lish  merit,  from  the  frisking  spaniel  to  the  steady 
Did  stag  -h  )imd,  —  the  last  of  which  was  of  a  race 
that  had  been  in  the  family  time  out  of  rnind;  they 
were  all  obedient  to  a  dog-whistle  which  hung  to 
Master  Simon's  button-hole,  and  in  the  midst  of 
their  gambols  would  glance  an  eye  occasiunallj 
apon  a  small  switch  he  carried  in  his  hand. 


282  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

The  old  mansion  had  a  still  more  venerable  lool 
in  the  yellow  sunshine  than  by  pale  moonlight 
and  I  could  not  but  feel  the  force  of  the  Squire's 
idea,  that  the  formal  terraces,  heavily  moulded  bal 
ustrades,  and  clipped  yew-trees  carried  with  them 
an  air  of  proud  aristocracy.  There  appeared  to  be 
RII  unusual  number  of  peacocks  about  the  place, 
and  I  was  making  some  remarks  upon  what  I 
termed  a  flock  of  them,  that  were  basking  under  a 
sunny  wall,  when  I  was  gently  corrected  in  my 
phraseology  by  Master  Simon,  who  told  me  that, 
according  to  the  most  ancient  and  approved  treatise 
on  hunting,  I  must  say  a  muster  of  peacocks.  "  In 
the  same  way,"  added  he,  with  a  slight  air  of  ped 
antry,  "  we  say  a  flight  of  doves  or  swallows,  a 
bevy  of  quails,  a  herd  of  deer,  of  wrens,  or  cranes, 
a  skulk  of  foxes,  or  a  building  of  rooks."  He 
went  on  to  inform  me  that,  according  to  Sir  An 
thony  Fitzhcrbert,  we  ought  to  ascribe  to  this  bird 
"  both  understanding  and  glory  ;  for,  being  praised, 
he  will  presently  set  up  his  tail,  chiefly  against 
the  sun,  to  the  intent  you  may  the  better  behold 
the  beauty  thereof.  But  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf, 
when  his  tail  falleth,  he  will  mourn  and  hide  him 
self  in  corners,  till  his  tail  come  again  as  it  was." 

I  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  display  of  small 
erudition  on  so  whimsical  a  subject;  but  I  found 
that  the  peacocks  were  birds  of  some  consequence 
at  the  hall;  for  Frank  Bracebridge  informed  me 
that  they  were  great  favorites  with  his  father,  who 
was  extremely  rarcful  to  keep  up  the  breed  ;  partly 
because  they  belonged  to  chivalry,  and  were  in 
great  request  at  the  stately  banquets  of  the  olden 
time,  ar-1  partly  because  they  hod  a  pomp  and 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  283 

magnificence  about  them,  highly  becoming  an  old 
family  mansion.  Nothing,  he  was  accustomed  U 
say,  had  an  air  of  greater  state  and  dignity  than  a 
peacock  perched  upui  an  antique  stone  balustrade. 
Master  Simon  had  now  to  hurry  off,  having  an 
appointment  at  the  parish  church  with  the  village 
choristers,  who  were  to  perform  some  music  of  his 
selection.  There  was  something  extremely  agree 
able  in  the  cheerful  flow  of  animal  spirits  of  the 
little  man  ;  and  I  confess  I  had  been  somewhat  sur 
prised  at  his  apt  quotations  from  authors  who  cer 
tainly  were  not  in  the  range  of  every-day  reading. 
I  mentioned  this  last  circumstance  to  Frank  Brace- 
bridge,  who  told  me  with  a  smile  that  Master  Si 
mon's  whole  stock  of  erudition  was  confmed  to 
some  half  a  dozen  old  authors,  which  the  Squire 
had  put  into  his  hands,  and  which  he  read  over 
and  over,  whenever  he  had  a  studious  fit ;  as  he 
sometimes  had  on  a  rainy  day,  or  a  long  winter 
evening.  Sir  Anthony  Fitzherbert's  Bock  of  Hus 
bandry  ;  Markham's  Country  Contentments  ;  the 
Tretyse  of  Hunting,  by  Sir  Thomas  Cockayne, 
Knight ;  Izaac  Walton's  Angler,  and  two  or  three 
more  such  ancient  worthies  of  the  pen,  were  his 
standard  authorities ;  and,  like  all  men  who  know 
but  a  few  books,  he  looked  up  to  them  with  a  kind 
of  idolatry,  and  quoted  them  on  all  occasions, 
As  to  his  songs,  they  were  chiefly  picked  out  of 
old  books  in  the  Squire's  library,  and  adapted  to 
tunes  that  were  popular  among  the  choice  spirits 
of  the  last  century.  His  practical  application  of 
scraps  of  literature,  however,  had  caused  him  to 
be  looked  upon  as  a  prodigy  of  book-knowledge 


284:  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

by  .'ill  the  grooms,  huntsmen,  and  small  sportsmen 
of  llic  neighborhood. 

"While  \ve  were  talking  we  heard  the  distant 
tolling  of  the  village-bell,  and  I  was  tQld  that  tho 
Squire  was  a  little  particular  in  having  his  house 
hold  at  church  on  a  Christmas  morning  ;  consid 
Bring  it  a  day  of  pouring  out  of  thanks  and  rejoio 
ing ;  for,  as  old  Tusscr  observed, 

"  At.  Christmas  be  merry,  nnd  thankful  icitlial, 
And  feast  :hy  poor  neighbors,  the  great  with  the  small." 

"If  you  are  disposed  to  go  to  church,"  said 
Frank  Bracebridge,  "  I  can  promise  you  a  speci 
men  of  my  cousin  Simon's  musical  achievements. 
As  the  church  is  destitute  of  an  organ,  he  has 
formed  a  band  from  the  village  amateurs,  and  es 
tablished  a  musical  club  for  their  improvement ; 
he  has  also  sorted  a  choir,  as  he  sorted  my  father's 
pack  of  hounds,  according  to  the  directions  of 
Jervaise  Markham,  in  his  Country  Contentments 
for  the  bass  he  has  sought  out  all  the  *  deep,  sol 
emn  mouths,'  and  for  the  tenor  the  '  loud-ringing 
mouths,'  among  the  country  bumpkins ;  and  for 
4 sweet  mouths,'  helms  culled  with  curious  taste 
among  the  prettiest  lasses  in  the  neighborhood  ; 
though  these  last,  he  affirms,  are  the  most  difficult 
to  keep  in  tune  ;  your  pretty  female  singer  being 
exceedingly  wayward  and  capricious,  and  very  li 
able  to  accident." 

As  the  morning,  though  frosty,  was  remarkably 
fine  and  clear,  the  most  of  the  family  walked  to  the 
church,  which  was  a  very  old  building  of  gray 
stone,  and  stood  near  a  village,  about  half  a 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  285 

from  the  park-gate.  Adjoining  it  was  a  low  snug 
parsonage,  which  seemed  coeval  with  the  church 
The  front  of  it  was  perfectly  matted  with  a  yew- 
tree,  that  had  been  trained  against  its  walls, 
through  the  dense  foliage  of  which,  apertures  had 
been  formed  to  admit  light  into  the  small  antique 
lattices.  As  we  passed  this  sheltered  nest,  the 
parson  issued  forth  and  preceded  us. 

I  had  expected  to  see  a  sleek,  well-conditioned 
pastor,  such  as  is  often  found  in  a  snug  living  in 
the  vicinity  of  a  rich  patron's  table ;  but  I  was 
disappointed.  The  parson  was  a  little,  meagre, 
black-looking  man,  with  a  grizzled  wig  that  was 
too  wide,  and  stood  oif  from  each  ear ;  so  that 
his  head  seemed  to  have  shrunk  away  within  it, 
like  a  dried  iilbert  in  its  shell.  He  wore  a  rusty 
coat,  with  great  skirts,  and  pockets  that  would 
have  held  the  church  Bible  and  prayer-book  :  and 
his  small  legs  seemed  still  smaller,  from  being 
planted  in  large  shoes,  decorated  with  enormous 
buckles. 

I  was  informed  by  Frank  Bracebridge,  that 
the  parson  had  been  a  chum  of  his  father's  at 
Oxford,  and  had  received  this  living  shortly  afte* 
the  latter  had  come  to  his  estate.  He  was  a 
complete  black-letter  hunter,  and  would  scarcely 
read  a  work  printed  in  the  Roman  character. 
The  editions  of  Caxton  and  Wynkin  de  AVordd 
Were  his  delight ;  and  he  was  indefatigable  in  hia 
researches  after  such  old  English  writers  as  have 
fallen  into  oblivion  from  their  worthlessness.  ID 
deference,  perhaps,  to  the  notions  of  Mr.  Brace- 
bridge,  he  had  made  'diligent  investigations  into 


286  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  festive  rites  and  holiday  customs  of  former 
times ;  and  had  been  as  zealous  in  the  inquiry  as 
if  he  had  been  a  boon  companion ;  but  it  was 
merely  with  that  plodding  spirit  with  which  men 
of  adust  temperament  follow  up  any  track  of 
study,  merely  because  it  is  denominated  learning; 
indifferent  to  its  intrinsic  nature,  Avhcthcr  it  bo 
the  illustration  of  the  wisdom,  or  of  the  ribaldry 
and  obscenity  of  antiquity.  He  had  pored  ovei 
these  old  volumes  so  intensely,  that  they  seemed 
to  have  been  reflected  in  his  countenance ;  which, 
if  the  face  be  indeed  an  index  of  the  mind,  might 
be  compared  to  a  title-page  of  black-letter. 

On  reaching  the  church-porch,  we  found  the 
parson  rebuking  the  gray-headed  sexton  for  hav 
ing  used  mistletoe  among  the  greens  with  which 
the  church  was  decorated.  It  was,  he  observed, 
an  unholy  plant,  profaned  by  having  been  used 
by  the  Druids  in  their  mystic  ceremonies  ;  and 
though  it  might  be  innocently  employed  in  the 
festive  ornamenting  of  halls  and  kitchens,  yet  it 
had  been  deemed  by  the  Fathers  of  the  Church  aa 
unhallowed,  and  totally  unfit  for  sacred  purposes. 
So  tenacious  was  he  on  tliis  point,  that  the  poor 
sexton  was  obliged  to  strip  down  a  groat  part  of 
the  humble  trophies  of  his  taste,  before  the.  par 
son  would  consent  to  enter  upon  the  service  of 
ihc  day. 

The  intcriof  of  the  church  was  venerable  bu$ 
gimple  ;  on  the  walls  were  several  mural  monu 
ments  of  the  Bracebridges,  and  just  beside  tlui 
altar  was  a  tomb  of  ancient  workmanship,  on 
which  lay  the  effigy  of  a  Warrior  in  armor,  with 


CHRISTMAS  DAT.  281 

his  legs  crossed,  a  sign  of  his  having  been  a  Cru 
sader.  I  was  told  it  was  one  of  the  family  who 
had  signalized  himself  in  the  Holy  Land,  and  the 
same  whose  picture  hung  over  the  fireplace  in  the 
hall. 

During  service,  Master  Simon  stood  up  in  the 
pew,  and  repeated  the  responses  very  audibly ; 
evincing  that  kind  of  ceremonious  devotion  punct 
ually  observed  by  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school, 
and  a  man  of  old  family  connections.  I  observed, 
too,  that  he  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a  folio 
prayer-book  with  something  of  a  flourish ;  possi 
bly  to  show  off  an  enormous  seal-ring  which  en 
riched  one  of  his  fingers,  and  which  had  the  look 
of  a  family  relic.  But  he  was  evidently  most  so 
licitous  about  the  musical  part  of  the  service,  keep 
ing  his  eye  fixed  intently  on  the  choir,  and  beat 
ing  time  with  much  gesticulation  and  emphasis. 

The  orchestra  was  in  a  small  gallery,  and  pre 
sented  a  most  whimsical  grouping  of  heads,  piled 
one  above  the  other,  among  which  I  particularly 
noticed  that  of  the  village  tailor,  a  pale  fellow 
with  a  retreating  forehead  and  chin,  who  played 
on  the  clarionet,  and  seemed  to  have  blown  his 
face  to  a  point ;  and  there  was  another,  a  short 
pursy  man,  stooping  and  laboring  at  a  bass-viol, 
BO  as  to  show  nothing  but  the  top  of  a  round  baM 
head,  like  the  egg  of  an  ostrich.  There  were 
two  or  three  pretty  faces  among  the  female  sing 
ers,  to  which  the  keen  air  of  a  frosty  mcrnmg 
had  given  a  bright  rosy  tint ;  but  the  gentlemen 
choristers  had  evidently  been  chosen,  like  old 
Cremona  fiddles,  more  for  tone  than  looks  ;  anil 


288  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

83  several  had  to  sing  from  the  same  book,  there 
were  clusterings  of  odd  physiognomies,  not  unlike 
those  groups  of  cherubs  we  sometimes  see  en 
country  tombstones. 

The  usual  services  of  the  choir  were  managed 
tolerably  well,  the  vocal  parts  generally  lagging  a 
little  behind  the  instrumental,  and  some  loitering 
Qddlcr  now  and  then  making  up  for  lost  time  by 
travelling  over  a  passage  with  prodigious  celerity, 
and  clearing  more  bars  than  the  keenest  fox- 
hunter  to  be  in  at  the  death.  But  the  great  trial 
was  an  anthem  that  had  been  prepared  and  ar 
ranged  by  Master  Simon,  and  on  which  he  had 
founded  great  expectation.  Unluckily  there  was 
a  blunder  at  the  very  outset ;  the  musicians  be 
came  flurried  ;  Master  Simon  was  in  a  fever ; 
everything  went  on  lamely  and  irregularly  until 
they  came  to  a  chorus  beginning,  "  Now  let  us 
sing  with  one  accord,"  which  seemed  to  be  a  sig 
nal  for  parting  company  :  all  became  discord  and 
confusion ;  each  shifted  for  himself,  and  got  to 
the  end  as  well,  or,  rather,  as  soon  as  he  could, 
excepting  one  old  chorister  in  a  pair  of  horn  spec 
tacles,  bestriding  and  pinching  a  long  sonorous 
nose ;  who  happened  to  stand  a  little  apart,  and, 
being  wrapped  up  in  his  own  melody,  kept  on  a 
quavering  course,  wriggling  his  head,  ogling  his 
foock,  and  winding  all  up  by  a  nasal  solo  of  at 
teaat  three  bars'  duration. 

The  parson  gave  us  a  most  erudite  sermon  on 
tho  rites  and  ceremonies  of  Christinas,  and  the 
propriety  of  observing  it  not  merely  as  a  day  of 
ingj  but  of  rejoicing;  supporting  th« 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  289 

correctness  of  his  opinions  by  the  earliest  usages 
of  the  church,  and  enforcing  them  by  the  author 
ities  of  Theophilus  of  Cesarea,  St.  Cyprian,  St. 
Chrysostom,  St.  Augustine,  and  a  cloud  more,  of 
saints  and  fathers,  from  whom  he  made  copious 
quotations.  I  was  a  little  at  a  loss  to  perceive 
the  necessity  of  such  a  mighty  array  of  forces 
to  maintain  a  point  which  no  one  present  seemed 
inclined  to  dispute  ;  but  I  soon  found  that  the 
good  man  had  a  legion  of  ideal  adversaries  to 
contend  with ;  having,  in  the  course  of  his  re 
searches  on  the  subject  of  Christmas,  got  com 
pletely  embroiled  in  the  sectarian  controversies  of 
the  Revolution,  when  the  Puritans  made  such  a 
fierce  assault  upon  the  ceremonies  of  the  church, 
and  poor  old  Christmas  was  driven  out  of  the 
land  by  proclamation  of  Parliament.*  The  wor 
thy  parson  lived  but  with  times  past,  and  knew 
but  little  of  the  present. 

Shut  up  among  worm-eaten  tomes  in  the  retire 
ment  of  his  antiquated  little  study,  the  pages  of 
old  times  were  to  him  as  the  gazettes  of  the  day ; 
while  the  era  of  the  Revolution  was  mere  modern 

*  From  the  "  Flying  Eagle,"  a  small  Gazette,  published 
December  24th,  1852: — "The  House  spent  much  time  this 
day  about  the  business  of  the  Navy,  for  settling  the  affairs  at 
sea,  and  before  they  rose,  were  presented  with  a  terrible  re 
monstrance  against  Christmas  day,  grounded  upon  divine 
Scriptures,  2  Cor.  v.  1C;  1  Cor.  xv.  14,  17;  and  in  honor  of 
the  Lord's  Day,  grounded  upon  these  Scriptures,  John  xx.  1 
Rev.  i.  10;  Psalm  cxviii.  24;  Lev.  xxiii.  7,  11;  Mark  xv.  8; 
Psalm  Ixxxiv.  10,  in  which  Christmas  is  called  Anti-christ's 
masse,  and  those  Masse-mongers  and  Papists  who  observe  it, 
etc.  In  consequence  of  which  Parliament  spent  some  time 
in  consultation  about  the  abolition  of  Christmas  day,  passed 
orders  to  that  effect,  and  resolved  to  sit  on  the  following  day 
which  was  commonly  called  Christmas  day." 
U 


290  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

history.  lie  forgot  that  nearly  two  centuries  had 
elapsed  since  the  fiery  persecution  of  poor  mince* 
pie  throughout  the  land ;  when  plum-porridge 
was  denounced  as  "  mere  popery,"  and  roast-beef 
as  anti- Christian  ;  and  that  Christmas  had  been 
brought  in  again  triumphantly  with  the  merry 
court  of  King  Charles  at  the  Restoration.  Ho 
kindled  into  warmth  with  the  ardor  of  his  contest, 
and  the  host  of  imaginary  foes  with  whom  he  had 
to  combat ;  he  had  a  stubborn  conflict  with  old 
Prynne  and  two  or  three  other  forgotten  cham 
pions  of  the  Round  Heads  on  the  subject  of  Christ 
mas  festivity ;  anc1  concluded  by  urging  his  hear 
ers,  in  the  most  solemn  and  affecting  manner,  to 
stand  to  the  traditional  customs  of  their  fathers, 
and  feast  and  make  merry  on  this  joyful  anniver 
sary  of  the  Church. 

I  have  seldom  known  a  sermon  attended  ap 
parently  with  more  immediate  effects ;  for  on 
leaving  the  church  the  congregation  seemed  one 
and  all  possessed  with  the  gayety  of  spirit  so 
earnestly  enjoined  by  their  pastor.  The  elder 
folks  gathered  in  knots  in  the  churchyard,  greet 
ing  and  shaking  hands;  and  the  children  ran 
about  crying  Ule  !  Ule  !  and  repeating  some  un« 
couth  rhymes,*  which  the  parson,  who  had  joined 
us,  informed  me  had  been  handed  down  from 
days  of  yore.  The  villagers  doffed  their  hats  to 
(he  Squire  as  lie  passed,  giving  him  the  good 
wishes  of  the  season  with  every  appearance  of 

»"Ule!  Ule! 

Three  puddings  in  a  pule 
Crack  nuts  and  cry  ule  I ' 


CHRISTMAS  DAT.  291 

heartfelt  sincerity,  and  were  invited  by  him  to  the 
hall,  to  take  something  to  keep  out  the  cold  of  Iho 
weather;  and  I  .heard  blessings  uttered  by  sev 
oral  of  the  poor,  which  convinced  me  that,  in  the 
midst  of  his  enjoyments,  the  worthy  old  cavalier 
had  not  forgotten  the  true  Christinas  virtue  of 
charity. 

On  our  Avay  homeward  his  heart  seemed  over 
flowed  with  generous  and  happy  feelings.  As  wo 
passed  over  a  rising  ground  which  commanded 
something  of  a  prospect,  the  sounds  of  rustic  mer 
riment  now  and  then  readied  our  ears  :  the  Squire 
paused  for  a  few  moments,  and  looked  around 
witli  an  air  of  inexpressible  benignity.  The 
beauty  of  the  day  was  of  itself  sufficient  to  in 
spire  philanthropy.  Notwithstanding  the  frosti- 
ness  of  the  morning,  the  sun  in  his  cloudless 
journey  had  acquired  sufficient  power  to  melt 
away  the  thin  covering  of  snow  from  every 
southern  declivity,  and  to  bring  out  the  living 
green  which  adorns  an  English  landscape  even  in 
midwinter.  Large  tracts  of  smiling  verdure  con 
trasted  with  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  the  shaded 
Blopes  and  hollows.  Every  sheltered  bank,  on 
which  the  broad  rays  rested,  yielded  its  silver 
rill  of  cold  and  limpid  water,  glittering  through 
tho  dripping  grass  ;  and  sent  up  slight  exhalations 
to  oontritute  to  the  thin  haze  that  hung  jusl 
above  the  surface  of  the  earth.  There  was  some* 
Ihing  truly  cheering  in  this  triumph-  of  warmth 
and  verdure  over  the  frosty  thraldom  of  winter 
it  was,  as  the  Squire  observed,  an  emblem  of 
Christinas  hospitality,  breaking  through  the 


292  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

of  ceremony  and  selfishness,  and  thawing  every 
heart  into  a  How.  lie  pointed  with  pleasure  to 
the  indications  of  good  cheer  recking  from  the 
chimneys  of  the  comfortable  farm-houses  and  lew 
(hatched  cottages.  "  I  love,"  said  he,  "  to  see 
(his  day  well  kept  by  rich  and  poor ;  it  is  a  great 
thing  to  have  one  day  in  the  year,  at  least,  when 
7011  are  sure  of  being  welcome  wherever  you  go, 
and  of  having,  as  it  were,  the  world  all  thrown 
open  to  you  ;  and  I  am  almost  disposed  to  join 
with  Poor  Robin,  in  his  malediction  oil  every 
churlish  enemy  to  this  honest  festival,  — 

"  Those  who  at  Christinas  do  ropine 

And  would  fail)  hence  dispatch  him, 
May  they  with  old  Duke  Humphry  dine, 
Or  else  may  Squire  Ketch  catch,  'em." 

The  Squire  went  on  to  lament  the  deplorable 
decay  of  the  games  and  amusements  which  were 
once  prevalent  at  this  season  among  the  lower 
orders,  and  countenanced  by  the  higher  ;  when 
the  old  halls  of  the  castles  and  manor-houses 
were  thrown  open  at  daylight;  when  the  tables 
were  covered  with  brawn,  and  beef,  and  humming 
ale  ;  when  the  harp  and  the  carol  resounded  all  day 
bug,  and  when  rich  and  poor  were  alike  welcome 
to  enter  and  make  merry.*  "  Our  old  games  and 

*  "An  English  gentleman,  at  the  opening  of  the  great  day. 
•>'.  e  on  Christmas  day  in  the  morning,  had  all  his  tenants  and 
neighbors  enter  his  hall  by  daybreak.  The  strong  bear  wai 
broached,  and  the  black-jacks  went  plentifully  about  with 
toast,  sugar  and  nutmeg,  and  good  Cheshire  cheese.  The 
Hackin  (the  great  sausage)  must  be  boiled  by  daybreak,  or 
else  two  young  men  must  take  the  maiden  (t.  e.  the  cook)  by 
the  arms',  and  run  her  round  the  market-place  till  she  11 
shauied  of  her  laziness."—  Round  about  our  Sea- Coal  Fire- 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  29;* 

local  customs,"  said  lie,  "  had  a  great  effect  iii 
making  the  peasant  fond  of  liis  home,  and  the 
promotion  of  them  by  the  gentry  made  him  fond 
of  his  lord.  They  made  the  times  merrier,  and 
kinder,  and  better,  and  I  ean  truly  say,  with  one 
of  our  old  poets,  — 

"  '  I  like  them  well  —  the  curious  preciseness 
And  all-pretended  gravity  of  those 
That  seek  to  banish  hence  these  harmless  sports 
Have  thrust  away  much  ancient  honesty.' 

''The  nation,"  continued  he,  "is  altered;  we 
have  almost  lost  our  simple  true-hearted  peas 
antry.  They  have  broken  asunder  from  the 
higher  classes,  and  seem  to  think  their  interests  are 
separate.  They  have  become  too  knowing,  and 
begin  to  read  newspapers,  listen  to  ale-house  pol 
iticians,  and  talk  of  reform.  I  think  one  mode  to 
keep  them  in  good-humor  in  these  hard  times 
would  be  for  the  nobility  and  gentry  to  piiss  more 
time  on  their  estates,  mingle  more  amon^  the 

7  O  O 

country  people,  and  set  the  merry  old  English 
games  going  again." 

Such  was  the  good  Squire's  project  for  mitigat 
ing  public  discontent :  and,  indeed,  he  had  once 
attempted  to  put  his  doctrine  in  practice,  and  a 
few  years  before  had  kept  open  house  during  tho 
holidays  in  the  old  style.  The  country  people, 
however,  did  not  understand  how  to  play  their 
parts  in  the  scene  of  hospitality  ;  many  uncouth 
circumstances  occurred ;  the  manor  was  overrun 
by  all  the  vagrants  of  the  country,  and  more  beg 
gars  drawn  into  the  neighborhood  in  one  week 
than  the  parish  officers  could  get  rid  of  in  a  year 


294  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Since  then,  he  had  contented  himself  with  invit* 
big  the  decent  part  of  the  neighboring  peasantry 
to  call  at  tnc  fmll  on  Christmas  day,  and  with 
distributing  beef,  and  bread,  and  ale,  among  the 
poor,  that  they  inigni  make  merry  in  their  own 
dwellings. 

We  had  not  been  long  home  when  the  sound 
of  music  was  heard  from  a  distance.  A  band  of 
country  lads,  without  couu,  their  shirt-sleeves 
fancifully  tied  with  ribbons,  iheir  hats  decorated 
with  greens,  and  clubs  in  their  hands,  was  seen 
advancing  up  the  avenue,  followed  by  a  large 
number  of  villagers  and  peasantry.  They  stopped 
before  the  hall-door,  where  the  music  struck  up 
a  peculiar  air,  and  the  lads  pcrtormod  a  curious 
and  intricate  dance,  advancing,  retreating,  and 
striking  their  clubs  together,  keeping  exact  time 
to  the.  music ;  while  one,  whimsically  crowned 
with  a  fox's  skin,  the  tail  of -which  flaunted  down 
his  back,  kept  capering  round  the  skirts  of  the 
dance,  and  rattling  a  Christmas  box  with  many 
antic  gesticulations. 

The  Squire  eyed  this  fanciful  exhibition  with 
great  interest  and  delight,  and  gave  me  a  full  ac 
count  of  its  origin,  which  he  traced  to  the  times 
when  the  Romans  held  possession  of  the  island ; 
plainly  proving  that  this  was  a  lineal  descendant 
of  the  sword-dance  of  the  ancients.  "  It  was 
now,"  he  said,  "  nearly  extinct,  but  he  had  arci« 
dentally  met  with  traces  of  it  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  had  encouraged  its  revival ;  though,  to  tell 
the  truth,  it  was  too  apt  to  be  followed  up  by  tho 
rough  cudgel  play,  and  broken  heads  in  the  even 
ing." 


CHRISTMAS  DAT.  296 

After  the  dance  was  concluded,  the  whole  party 
RTOS  entertained  with  brawn  and  beef,  and  stout 
home-brewed.  The  Squire  himself  mingled  among 
the  rustics,  and  was  received  with  awkward  dem 
onstrations  of  deference  and  regard.  It  is  true  T 
perceived  two  or  three  of  the  younger  peasants,  as 
they  wei-e  raising  their  tankards  to  their  mouths, 
when  the  Squire's  back  was  turned,  making  some 
thing  of  a  grimace,  and  giving  each  other  the 
wink ;  but  the  moment  they  caught  my  eye  they 
pulled  grave  faces,  and  were  exceedingly  demure. 
With  Master  Simon,  however,  they  all  seemed 
more  at  their  ease.  His  varied  occupations  and 
amusements  had  made  him  well  known  through 
out  the  neighborhood.  He  was  a  visitor  at  every 
farm-house  and  cottage  ;  gossiped  with  the  fanners 
and  their  wives  ;  romped  with  their  daughters  ; 
and,  like  that  type  of  a  vagrant  bachelor,  the  hum* 
blebee,  tolled  the  sweets  from  all  the  rosy  lips  of 
the  country  round. 

The  bashfulness  of  the  guests  soon  gave  way 
before  good  cheer  and  affability.  There  is  some 
thing  genuine  and  affectionate  in  the  gayety  of 
the  lower  orders,  when  it  is  excited  by  the  bounty 
and  familiarity  of  those  above  them ;  the  warm 
glow  of  gratitude  enters  into  their  mirth,  and  a 
kiud  word  or  a  small  pleasantry  frankly  uttered 
by  a  patron,  gladdens  the  heart  of  the  dependent 
more  than  oil  and  wine.  When  the  Squire  had 
retired,  the  merriment  increased,  and  there  was 
much  joking  and  laughter,  particularly  between 
Master  Simon  and  a  hale,  ruddy -faced,  white- 
headed  farmer,  who  appeared  to  be  the  wit  of  the 


296  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

village ;  for  I  observed  all  his  companions  to  wait 
with  open  mouths  for  his  retorts,  and  burst  into  a 
gratuitous  laugh  before  they  could  well  understand 
them. 

The  whole  house  indeed  seemed  abandoned  to 
merriment :  as  I  passed  to  my  room  to  dress  for 
dinner,  I  heard  the  sound  of  music  in  a  small  court, 
and,  looking  through  a  window  that  commanded 
it,  I  perceived  a  band  of  wandering  musicians,  with 
pandean  pipes  and  tambourine  ;  a  pretty  coquettish 
housemaid  was  dancing  a  jig  with  a  smart  country 
lad,  while  several  of  the  other  servants  were  look 
ing  on.  In  the  midst  of  her  sport  the  girl  caught 
a  glimpse  of  my  face  at  the  window,  and,  coloring 
up,  ran  off  with  an  air  of  roguish  affected 
ROIL 


THE   CHRISTMAS   DINNER, 


Lo,  now  is  come  our  joyful'st  feast! 

Let  every  man  be  jolly, 
E&ohe  roome  with  yvie  leaves  is  drest, 

And  everv  post  with  holly. 
Now  all  our  neighbours'  chimneys  smoke, 

And  Christinas  blocks  are  burning; 
Their  ovens  they  with  bak't  meats  choke, 
And  all  their  spits  are  turning. 
Without  the  door  let  sorrow  lie, 
And  it',  for  cold,  it  hap  to  die, 
Wee  'Ie  bury  't  in  a  Christinas  pye, 
And  evermore  be  merrv. 

\VlTIIEKS'S  JUVEHILIA. 

HAD  finished  my  toilet,  and  was  loiter- 
ing  with  Frank  Bracebridge  in  the  li 
brary,  when  we  heard  a  distant  thwack 
ing  sound,  which  he  informed  me  was  a  signal  for 
the  serving  up  of  the  dinner.  The  Squire  kopt  up 
old  customs  in  kitchen  as  well  as  hall ;  and  the 
rolling-pin,  struck  upon  the  dresser  by  the  cock, 
summoned  the  servants  to  cany  in  the  meats. 

"  Just  in  this  nick  the  cook  knock'd  thrice, 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  trice 

His  summons  did  obey; 
Each  serving1  man,  with'dish  in  hand, 
March'd  boldly  up,  like  our  train  band, 

Presented,  and  away."  * 

Tho  dinner  was  served  up  in  the  great  hali 
where  the  Squire  always  held  his  Christmas  b<m 

*  Sir  John  Suckling 

297 


298  t  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

quet.  A  blazing,  crackling  fire  of  logs  had  been 
heaped  on  to  warm  the  spacious  apartment,  and 
the  flame  went  sparkling  and  wreathing  up  the 
wide-mouthed  chimney.  The  great  picture  of  the 
crusader  and  his  white  horse  had  been  profusely 
decorated  with  greens  for  the  occasion  ;  and  holly, 
cind  ivy  had  likewise  been  wreathed  round  the 
helmet  and  weapons  on  the  opposite  wall,  which 
1  understood  were  the  arms  of  the  same  warrior. 
I  must  own,  by  the  by,  I  had  strong  doubts  aboul 
the  authenticity  of  the  painting  and  armor  as  hav 
ing  belonged  to  the  crusader,  they  certainly  hav 
ing  the  stamp  of  more  recent  days  ;  but  I  was  told 
that  the  painting  had  been  so  considered  time  out 
of  mind ;  and  that,  as  to  the  armor,  it  had  been 
found  in  a  lumber-room,  and  elevated  to  its  present 
situation  by  the  Squire,  who  at  once  determined  it 
to  be  the  armor  of  the  family  hero ;  and  as  he 
was  absolute  authority  on  all  such  subjects  in  his 
own  household,  the  matter  had  passed  into  current 
acceptation.  A  sideboard  was  set  out  just  under 
this  chivalric  trophy,  on  which  was  a  display  of 
plate  that  might  have  vied  (at  least  in  variety)  with 
Belshazzar's  parade  of  the  vessels  of  the  temple : 
"  flagons,  cans,  cups,  beakers,  goblets,  basins,  and 
ewers  ;  "  the  gorgeous  utensils  of  good  companion* 
ship  that  had  gradually  accumulated  through  many 
generations  of  jovial  housekeepers.  Before  these 
stood  the  two  Yule  candles,  beaming  like  two  stars 
of  the  first  magnitude  ;  other  lights  were  distiib- 
nted  in  branches,  and  the  whole  array  glittered 
like  a  firmament  of  silver. 

"\Ve  were  ushered  into  this  banqueting  scene 


THE   CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  299 

with  the  sound  of  minstrelsy,  the  old  harper  being 
Boated  on  a  stool  beside  the  fireplace,  and  twanging 
his  instrument  with  a  vast  deal  more  power  than 
melody.  Never  did  Christmas  board  display  a 
more  goodly  and  gracious  assemblage  of  counte 
nances  ;  those  who  were  not  handsome  were,  at 
least,  happy;  and  happiness  is  a  rare  improver 
of  your  hard-favored  visage.  I  always  consider 
an  old  English  family  as  well  worth  studying  as 
a  collection  of  Holbein's  portraits  or  Albert  Diirer'a 
prints.  There  is  much  antiquarian  lore  to  be 
acquired ;  much  knowledge  of  the  physiognomies 
of  former  times.  Perhaps  it  may  be  from  having 
continually  before  their  eyes  those  rows  of  old 
family  portraits,  with  which  the  mansions  of  this 
country  are  stocked  ;  certain  it  is,  that  the  quaint 
features  of  antiquity  arc  often  most  faithfully  per 
petuated  in  these  ancient  lines  ;  and  I  have  traced 
an  old  family  nose  through  a  whole  picture  gallery, 
legitimately  handed  down  from  generation  to  gen 
eration,  almost  from  the  time  of  the  Conquest. 
Something  of  the  kind  was  to  be  observed  in  the 
worthy  company  around  me.  Many  of  their  faces 
had  evidently  originated  in  a  Gothic  age,  and  been 
merely  copied  by  succeeding  generations ;  and 
there  was  one  little  girl  in  particular,  of  staid  de 
meanor,  with  a  high  Roman  nose,  and  an  antique 
vinegar  aspect,  who  was  a  great  favorite  of  tho 
Squire's,  being,  as  he  said,  a  Bracebridge  all  over, 
and  the  very  countcrpait  of  one  of  his  ancestors 
who  figured  in  the  court  of  Henry  VIII. 

The  parson  said  grace,  which  was  not  a  short 
Similiar  one,  such  as  is  commonly  addressed  to  the 


300  THE  SKETCH-BOOS. 

Deity  in  these  unceremonious  days ;  but  a  long 
courtly,  well- worded  one  of  the  ancient  school 
There  was  now  a  pause,  as  if  something  was  ex 
pccted ;  when  suddenly  the  butler  entered  the  hall 
with  some  degree  of  bustle :  he  was  attended  by  a 
servant  on  each  side  with  a  large  wax-light,  and 
bore  a  silver  dish,  on  which  was  an  enormous  pig's 
head,  decorated  with  rosemary,  with  a  lemon  in  its 
mouth,  which  was  placed  with  great  formality  at 
the  head  of  the  table.  The  moment  this  pageant 
made  its  appearance,  the  harper  struck  up  a  flour 
ish  ;  at  the  conclusion  of  which  the  young  Oxonian, 
on  receiving  a  hint  from  the  Squire,  gave,  with  an 
air  of  the  most  comic  gravity,  an  old  carol,  the  first 
verse  of  which  was  as  follows :  — 

"Cnput  npri  defero 

Keddens  lautlcs  Domino. 
The  boar's  hcail  in  hand  bring  I, 
\Yith  garlands  gay  and  rosemary. 
I  pray  yon  all  synge  merrily 

Qiii  cstis  iu  couvivio." 

Though  prepared  to  witness  many  of  these  little 
eccentricities,  from  being  apprised  of  the  peculiar 
hobby  of  mine  host,  yet,  I  confess,  the  parade  wuh 
which  so  odd  a  dish  was  introduced  somewhat  per 
plexed  me,  until  I  gathered  from  the  conversation 
of  the  Squire  and  the  parson,  that  it  was  meant  to 
represent  the  bringing  in  of  the  boar's  head  :  a  disfi 
formerly  served  up  with  much  ceremony  and  tii3 
Bound  of  minstrelsy  and  song,  at  great  tables,  on 
Christmas  day.  "  I  like  the  old  custom,"  said  (ho 
Squire,  "  not  merely  because  it  is  stately  and  pleas 
ing  in  itself,  but  because  it  was  observed  at  tho 
rollesre  at  Oxford  at  which  1  was  educated.  AVLeo 


THE  CHXISTMAS  DIXXER.  301 

i  hoar  the  old  ?ong  chanted,  it  brings  to  mind  the 
time  when  1  was  young  and  gamesome,  —  and  the 
noble  old  college-hall,  —  and  my  fellow-students 
loitering  about  in  their  black  gowns;  many  of 
whom,  poor  lads,  are  now  in  their  graves ! " 

The  parson,  however,  whose  mind  was  not 
haunted  by  such  associations,  and  who  was  always 
more  taken  up  witli  the  text  than  the  sentiment, 
objected  to  the  Oxonian's  version  of  the  carol ; 
\vhich  he  affirmed  was  different  from  that  sunir  at 

O 

college,  lie  went  on,  with  the  dry  perseverance 
of  a  commentator,  to  give  the  college  reading,  ac 
companied  by  sundry  annotations  ;  addressing  him 
self  at  first  to  the  company  at  large ;  but  finding 
their  attention  gradually  diverted  to  other  talk  and 
other  objects,  he  lowered  la's  tone  as  his  number  of 
auditors  diminished,  until  he  concluded  his  remarks 
hi  mi  undervoice,  to  a  fat-headed  old  gentleman 
next  him,  who  was  silently  engaged  in  the  discus 
sion  of  a  huge  plateful  of  turkey.* 

*  The  old  ceremonv  of  serving  up  the  boar's  heart  on  Christ 
mas  day  is  still  observed  in  the  hall  of  Queen's  College,  Ox 
ford.  1  was  favored  bv  the  parson  with  :i  copy  of  the  carol  as 
DOW  sv.ng,  and,  as  it  may  be  acceptable  to  such  of  my  readers 
as  are  curious  in  these  "grave  and  learned  matters,  I  giva  ii 
intirs. 

"  The  boar's  head  in  hand  bear  I, 
liedeck'd  with  bays  and  rosemary; 
And  I  pray  you,  my  masters,  be  merry 
Quot  cstis  in  convivio. 
Captit  apri  defero, 
lieddens  laudes  doniino. 

**  The  boar's  head,  as  I  understand, 
Is  the  rarest  dish  in  all  this  land, 
Which  thus  bedeck'd  with  a  ga 
Let  us  servire  cantico. 
Caput  apri  deiero,  etc. 


S02  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

The  table  was  literally  loaded  with  good  cheer 
and  presented  an  epitome  of  country  abundance,  in 
this  season  of  overflowing  larders.  A  distinguished 
post  was  allotted  to  "  ancient  sirloin,"  as  mine  host 
termed  it ;  being,  as  he  added,  "  the  standard  of 
old  English  hospitality,  and  a  joint  of  goodly  pres 
ence,  and  full  of  expectation."  There  were  several 
dishes  quaintly  decorated,  and  which  had  evidently 
something  traditional  in  their  embellishments  ;  but 
about  which,  as  I  did  not  like  to  appear  over-curi 
ous,  I  asked  no  questions. 

I  could  not,  however,  but  notice  a  pie,  magnifi 
cently  decorated  with  peacock's  feathers,  in  irnita 
tion  of  the  tail  of  that  bird,  which  overshadowed  a 
considerable  tract  of  the  table.  This,  the  Squire 
confessed,  with  some  little  hesitation,  was  a  pheas 
ant-pie,  though  a  peacock-pie  was  certainly  the 
most  authentical ;  but  there  had  been  such  a  mor 
tality  among  the  peacocks  this  season,  that  he  cculd 
not  prevail  upon  himself  to  have  one  killed.* 

"  Our  steward  hath  provided  this 
In  honor  of  the  King  of  Bliss, 
Which  on  this  day  to  be  served  is 
la  Reginensi  Atrio. 

Caput  apri  del'ero," 

etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

*  The  peacock  was  anciently  in  great  demand  for  stately 
entertainments.  Sometimes  it  was  made  into  a  pie,  at  o&fl 
«nd  of  which  the  head  appeared  above  the  crust  in  all  it* 
plumage,  with  the  beak  richly  gilt;  at  the  other  end  the  tail 
Was  displayed.  Such  pies  were  served  up  at  the  solemn  ban 
quets  of  chivalry,  when  knights-errant  pledged  themselves  to 
undertake  any  perilous  enterprise,  whence  came  the  anuient 
Oath,  used  by  Justice  Shallow,  "  by  cock  and  pie." 

The  peacock  was  also  an  important  dish  for  the  Christmas 
feast;  and  Massinger,  in  his  "City  Madam,"  gives  some  idc^ 
of  the  extravagance  with  which  this,  as  we',  as  other  dijh«»%, 
Vtu  prepared  for  the  gorgeous  revels  of  the  *Uen  times:  - 


THE   CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  303 

It  would  be  tedious,  perhaps,  to  my  wiser  read- 
era,  who  may  not  have  that  foolish  fondness  for 
odd  and  obsolete  things  to  which  I  am  a  liUle  giv 
en,  were  I  to  mention  the  other  makeshifts  of  this 
worthy  old  humorist,  by  which  he  was  endeavor 
ing  to  follow  up,  though  at  humble  distance,  tho 
quaint  customs  of  antiquity.  I  was  pleased,  how 
ever,  to  see  the  respect  shown  to  his  whims  by  his 
children  and  relatives  ;  who,  indeed,  entered  read 
ily  into  the  full  spirit  of  them,  and  seemed  all  well 
versed  in  their  parts  ;  having  doubtless  been  pres 
ent  at  many  a  rehearsal.  1  was  amused,  too,  at 
the  air  of  profound  gravity  with  which  the  butler 
and  other  servants  executed  the  duties  assigned 
them,  however  eccentric.  They  had  an  old-fash 
ioned  look  ;  having,  for  the  most  part,  been  brought 
up  in  the  household,  and  grown  into  keeping  with 
(he  antiquated  mansion,  and  the  humors  of  its  lord ; 
and  most  probably  looked  upon  all  his  whimsical 
regulations  as  the  established  laws  of  honorable 
housekeeping. 

When  the  cloth  was  removed,  the  butler  brought 
in  a  huge  silver  vessel  of  rare  and  curious  work 
manship,  which  he  placed  before  the  Squire.  Its 
appearance  was  hailed  with  acclamation ;  being 
the  AVassail  Bowl,  so  renowned  in  Christmas  fcstiv" 
ity.  The  contents  had  been  prepared  by  the  Squira 
himself;  for  it  was  a  beverage  in  the  skilful  mixture 
$f  which  he  particularly  prided  himself'  alleging 

"Men  may  talk  of  Country  Christm asses, 

"Their  thirty  pound  butter' d  eggs,  their  pies   of  carps1 
ionguea ; 

u  Their  pheasants  drench'd  with  ambergris ;  the  carcases  of 
three  ft it  wethws  bruised  for  gracy  ft)  make  sunce  for  a 
ptooccfc." 


304  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

that  it  was  tco  abstruse  and  complex  for  the  com 
prehension  of  an  ordinary  servant.  It  was  a  pota 
tion,  indeed,  tliut  might  well  make  the  heart  of  a 
toper  leap  within  him  ;  being  composed  of  tho 
richest  and  raciest  wines,  highly  spiced  and  sweet 
ened,  with  roasted  apples  bobbing  about  the  sur« 
face* 

The  old  gentleman's  whole  countenance  beamed 
with  a  serene  look  of  indwelling  delight,  as  he 
stirred  this  mighty  bowl.  Having  raised  it  to  his 
lips,  with  a  hearty  Avish  of  a  merry  Christmas  to  all 
present,  he  sent  it  brimming  round  the  board,  for 
every  one  to  follow  his  example,  according  to  tho 
primitive  style;  pronouncing  it  "  the  ancient  foun 
tain  of  good  feeling,  where  all  hearts  met  togeth 
er."  f 

There  was  much  laughing  and  rallying  as  the 
honest  emblem  of  Christmas  joviality  circulated, 
and  was  kissed  rather  coyly  by  the  ladies.  "When 
it  reached  Master  Simon,  he  raised  it  in  both  hands, 

*  The  Wassail  Bowl  was  sometimes  composed  of  ale  instead 
cf  wine;  with  nutmeg,  sugar,  toast,  ginger,  and  roasted  crabs: 
in  this  way  the  nut-brown  beverage  is  still  prepared  in  some 
old  families,  and  round  the  hearths  of  substant  al  fanners  ftt 
Christmas.  It  is  also  called  Lamb's  Wool,  and  is  celebraieJ 
by  Herrick  in  his  "  Twelfth  Night":  — 

''  Next  crowne  the  bowle  full 

With  gentle  Lamb's  Wool; 
Add  sugar,  nutmeg,  and  ginger 

With  store  of  ale  too; 

And  thus  ye  must  doe 
To  make  the  \Vassaile  a  swinger." 

t  "  The  custom  of  drinking  out  of  the  same  cup  gave  place 
•c  each  having  his  cup.  When  the  steward  came  to  the  door« 
Trilii  the  Wassel,  he  was  to  cry  three  times,  Wassd,  Wattt-l^ 
Wasstfl,  and  then  the  chappel.  ^chaplein)  was  to  answer  frith 
»  Bcng."  — 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  SOS 

End  with  the  ipr  of  a  boon  companion  struck  np  an 
sld  W,w«w*;l  Chanson. 

The  brown  bowle. 

The  merry  brown  bowle, 

As  it  goes  round  about-a, 

Fill 

Still, 

Let  the  world  say  what  it  will 
And  drink  your  fill  all  ou.t-a. 

"  The  deep  canne, 
The  merry  deep  canne, 
As  thou  dost  freely  quaff-a, 

ft* 

1  Img, 

Be  as  merry  as  a  king, 

And  sound  a  lusty  laugh-a.'!  * 

Much  of  the  conversation  during  dinner  turned 
upon  family  topics,  to  which  I  was  a  stranger. 
There  was,  however,  a  great  deal  of  rallying  of 
Master  Simon  about  some  gay  widow,  with  whom 
ha  was  accused  of  having  a  flirtation.  This  attack 
was  commenced  by  the  ladies ;  but  it  was  contin 
ued  throughout  the  dinner  by  the  fat-headed  old 
gentleman  next  the  parson,  with  the  persevering 
assiduity  of  a  slow  hound  ;  being  one  of  those  long- 
winded  jokers,  who,  though  rather  dull  at  starting 
game,  are  unrivalled  for  their  talents  in  hunting  it 
down.  At  every  pause  in  the  general  conversa 
tion,  he  renewed  his  bantering  in  pretty  much  the 
same  terms ;  winking  hard  at  me  with  both  eyes, 
whenever  he  gave  Master  Simon  what  he  consid 
ered  a  home  thrust.  The  latter,  indeed,  seemed 
fond  of  being  teased  on  the  subject,  as  old  bache 
lors  arc  apt  to  be  ;  and  he  took  occasion  to  inform 
me,  IF  an  undertone,  that  the  lady  in  question  was 
*  From  Poor  Robin's  Almanac. 
20 


306  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

a  prodigiously  fine  woman,  and  drove  her 
curricle. 

The  dinner-time  passed  away  in  this  flow  of  in- 
nocent  hilarity,  and,  though  the  old  hall  may  have 
resounded  in  its  time  with  many  a  scene  of  broader 
rout  and  revel,  yet  I  doubt  whether  it  ever  wit 
nessed  more  honest  and  genuine  enjoyment.  HCAT 
easy  it  is  for  one  benevolent  being  to  diffuse  pleas  • 
ure  around  him  ;  a..id  how  truly  is  a  kind  heart  a 
fountain  of  gladness,  making  everything  in  its  vi 
cinity  to  freshen  into  smiles  !  the  joyous  disposition 
of  the  worthy  Squire  was  perfectly  contagious  ;  he 
was  happy  himself,  and  disposed  to  make  all  the 
world  happy  ;  and  the  little  eccentricities  of  his 
humor  did  but  season,  in  a  manner,  the  sweetness 
of  his  philanthropy. 

When  the  ladies  had  retired,  the  conversation, 
as  usual,  became  still  more  animated ;  many  good 
things  were  broached  which  had  been  thought  of 
during  dinner,  but  which  would  not  exactly  do  for 
a  lady's  ear  ;  and  though  I  cannot  positively  affirm 
that  there  was  much  wit  uttered,  yet  I  have  cer 
tainly  heard  many  contests  of  rare  wit  produce 
much  less  laughter.  Wit,  after  all,  is  a  mighty 
tart,  pungent  ingredient,  and  much  too  acid  for 
some  stomachs ;  but  honest  good-humor  is  the  oil 
and  wine  of  a  merry  meeting,  and  there  is  no  jo 
vial  companionship  equal  to  that  where  the  jokca 
&re  rather  small,  and  the  laughter  abundant. 

The  Squire  told  several  long  stones  of  early  col 
lege  pranks  and  adventures,  in  some  of  which 
the  parson  had  been  a  sharer ;  though  iii  looking  at 
the  latter,  it  required  some  effort  of  imagination  t? 


THE   CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  307 

figure  such  a  little  dark  anatomy  of  a  man  iiita  the 
perpetrator  of  a  madcap  gambol.  Indeed,  the  two 
college  chums  presented  pictures  of  what  men  may 
1)3  made  by  their  different  lots  in  life.  The 
Squire  had  left  the  university  to  live  lustily  on  hia 
paternal  domains,  in  the  vigorous  enjoyment  of 
prosperity  and  sunshine,  and  had  flourished  on  to 
a  hearty  and  florid  old  age ;  whilst  the  poor  par- 
son,  on  the  contrary,  had  dried  and  withered  away, 
among  dusty  tomes,  in  the  silence  and  shadows  of 
his  study.  Still  there  seemed  to  be  a  spark  of 
almost  extinguished  fire,  feebly  glimmering  in  tho 
bottom  of  his  soul;  and  as  the  Squire  hinted  at  a 
sly  story  of  the  parson  and  a  pretty  milkmaid, 
whom  they  once  met  on  the  banks  of  the  Isis,  the 
old  gentleman  made  an  "  alphabet  of  faces,"  which, 
as  far  as  I  could  decipher  his  physiognomy,  I  verily 
believe  was  indicative  of  laughter  ;  —  indeed,  I 
have  rarely  met  with  an  old  geutleman  that  took 
absolute  offence  at  the  imputed  gallantries  of  his 
youth. 

I  found  the  tide  of  wine  and  wassail  fast  gain« 
ing  on  the  dry  land  of  sober  judgment.  The  com 
pany  grew  merrier  and  louder  as  their  jokes  grew 
duller.  Master  Simon  was  in  as  chirping  a  hu 
mor  as  a  grasshopper  filled  with  dew ;  his  eld 
Bongs  grew  of  a  warmer  complexion,  r.tid  he  be- 
gen  to  talk  maudlin  about  the  widow.  lie  evcu 
gare  a  long  song  about  the  wooing  of  a  widow 
wLioh  he  informed  me  he  had  gathered  from  an 
excellent  black-letter  work,  entitled  "  Cupid's  So 
licitor  for  Love,"  containing  store  of  good  advicfl 
for  bachelors,  and  which  he  promised  to  lend  ma 
The  first  verse  was  to  this  efiect :  — 


308  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

*'  He  that  will  woo  a  widow  mnst  not  dnlly, 

He  must  make  hay  while  the  sun  ikth  shine; 
He  must  not  stand  \'*'i»h  her,  shall  I,  shall  I? 
But  boldly  .say,  Widow,  thou  must  be  mine." 

This  song  inspired  the  fat-headed  old  gentleman, 
wl:o  made  several  attempts  to  tell  a  rather  broad 
story  out  of  Joe  Miller,  that  was  pat  to  the  pur 
pose  ;  but  he  always  stuck  in  the  middle,  every 
body  recollecting  the  latter  part  excepting  himself. 
The  parson,  too,  began  to  show  the  effects  of  good 
cheer,  having  gradually  settled  down  into  a  doze, 
and  his  wig  sitting  most  suspiciously  on  one  side. 
Just  at  this  juncture  we  were  summoned  to  the 
drawing-room,  and,  I  suspect,  at  the  private  insti 
gation  of  mine  host,  whose  joviality  seemed  always 
Jfimpeml  with  a  proper  love  of  decorum. 

After  the  dinner-table  was  removed,  the  hall 
was  given  up  to  the  younger  members  of  the  fam 
ily,  who,  prompted  to  all  kind  of  noisy  mirth  by 
the  Oxonian  and  Master  Simon,  made  its  old  walls 
i'ing  with  their  merriment,  as  they  played  at  romp 
ing  games.  I  delight  in  witnessing  the  gambols 
of  children,  and  particularly  at  this  happy  holiday 
season,  and  could  not  help  stealing  out  of  the 
drawing-room  on  hearing  one  of  their  peals  of 
laughter.  I  found  them  at  the  game  of  blind- 
man's-buff.  Master  Simon,  who  was  the  leader 
of  their  revels,  and  seemed  on  all  occasions  to  ful 
fil  I  he  office  of  that  ancient  potentate,  the  Lord 
if  Misrule,*  was  blinded  in  the  midst  of  the  halL 

*  At  Cliristmasftd  there  was  in  the  Kinge  s  house,  where- 
§oe\er  hee  was  lodged,  a  lorde  of  misrule,  or  mavster  of  merit 
disportes,  and  'he  like  had  ye  in  the  house  ofeverv  nobleman 
Of  honoi,  or  good  wor.shir..pe,  were  he  spiritual!  or'temporall.' 
—  STONVK. 


THE   CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  309 

flic  little  beings  were  as  busy  about  him  as  ih« 
mock  fairies  about  Falstaff;  pinching  him,  pluck 
ing  at  the  skirts  of  his  coat,  and  tickling  him  with 
straws.  One  fine  blue-eyed  girl  of  about  thir 
teen,  with  her  flaxen  hair  all  in  beautiful  confu 
sion,  her  frolic  face  in  a  glow,  her  frock  half  torn 
off  her  shoulders,  a  complete  picture  of  a  romp, 
was  the  chief  tormentor;  and,  from  the  slynesa 
with  which  Master  Simon  avoided  the  smaller 
game,  and  hemmed  this  wild  little  nymph  in  cor 
ners,  and  obliged  her  to  jump  shrieking  over  chairs, 
I  suspected  the  rogue  of  being  not  a  whit  11101x3 
blinded  than  was  convenient. 

When  I  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  I  found 
the  company  seated  round  the  fire,  listening  to  the 
parson,  who  was  deeply  ensconced  in  a  high-backed 
oaken  chair,  the  work  of  some  cunning  artificer  of 
yore,  which  had  been  brought  from  the  library  for 
his  particular  accommodation.  From  this  vener 
able  piece  of  furniture,  with  which  his  shadowy 
figure  and  dark  weazen  face  so  admirably  accord- 
ed,  he  was  dealing  out  strange  accounts  of  the 
popular  superstitions  and  legends  of  the  surround 
ing  country,  with  which  he  had  become  acquaint 
ed  in  the  course  of  his  antiquarian  researches.  I 
am  half  inclined  to  think  that  the  old  gentleman 
was  himself  somewhat  tinctured  with  superstition, 
as  men  are  very  apt  to  be  who  live  a  recluse  and 
studious  life  in  a  sequestered  part  of  the  country, 
and  pore  over  black-letter  tracts,  so  often  filled 
with  the  marvellous  and  supernatural.  lie  gave 
us  several  anecdotes  of  the  fancies  of  the  neigh- 
Coring  peasantry,  concerning  the  effigy  of  the  cm 


310  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Bader,  which  lay  on  the  tomb  by  the  church-altar 
As  it  was  the  only  monument  of  the  kind  in  that 
part  of  the  country,  it  had  always  been  regarded 
with  feelings  of  superstition  by  the  good  wives  of 
the  village.  It  was  said  to  get  up  from  the  tomb 
and  walk  the  rounds  of  the  churchyard  in  stormy 
nights,  particularly  when  it  thundered  ;  and  one 
old  woman,  whose  cottage  bordered  on  the  church 
yard,  had  seen  it  through  the  windows  of  the 
church,  when  the  moon  shone,  slowly  pacing  up 
and  down  the  aisles.  It  was  the  belief  that  some 
wrong  had  been  left  unredressed  by  the  deceased, 
or  some  treasure  hidden,  which  kept  the  spirit  in 
a  state  of  trouble  and  restlessness.  Some  talked 
of  gold  and  jewels  buried  in  the  tomb,  over  which 
the  spectre  kept  watch ;  and  there  was  a  story 
current  of  a  sexton  in  old  times,  who  endeavored 
to  break  his  way  to  the  coffin  at  night,  but,  just 
as  he  reached  it,  received  a  violent  blow  from  the 
marble  hand  of  the  effigy,  which  stretched  him 
senseless  on  the  pavement.  These  tales  were 
often  laughed  at  by  some  of  the  sturdier  among 
the  nistics,  yet,  when  night  came  on,  there  were 
many  of  the  stoutest  unbelievers  that  were  shy  of 
venturing  alone  in  the  footpath  that  led  across  the 
churchyard. 

From  these  and  other  anecdotes  that  followed, 
the  crusader  appeared  to  be  the  favorite  hero  of 
ghost-stories  throughout  the  vicinity.  His  pict 
ure,  which  hung  up  in  the  hall,  was  thought  by 
the  servants  to  have  something  supernatural  about 
it ;  for  they  remarked  tiiat,  in  whatever  part  of 
the  hall  you  went,  the  eyes  of  the  warrior  were 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  3H 

stu  fixed  on  yon.  The  old  porter's  wife,  too,  at 
the  udge,  who  had  been  born  and  brought  up  in 
the  family,  and  was  a  great  gossip  among  the 
maid-servants,  affirmed,  that  in  her  young  days 
she  had  often  heard  say,  that  on  Midsummer  eve, 
when  it  was  well  known  all  kinds  of  ghosts,  gob* 
Una,  and  fairies  become  visible  and  walk  abroad, 
the  crusader  used  to  mount  his  horse,  come  down 
from  his  picture,  ride  about  the  house,  down  the 
iwcnue,  and  so  to  the  church  to  visit  the  tomb; 
on  which  occasion  the  church  -  door  most  civilly 
swung  open  of  itself;  not  that  he  needed  it,  for 
he  rode  through  closed  gates  and  even  stone  walls, 
.and  had  been  seen  by  one  of  the  dairy-maids,  to 
pass  between  two  bars  of  the  great  park -gate, 
making  himself  as  thin  as  a  sheet  of  paper. 

All  these  superstitions  I  found  had  been  very 
much  countenanced  by  the  Squire,  who,  though 
not  superstitious  himself,  was  very  fond  of  seeing 
others  so.  He  listened  to  every  goblin-tale  of 
the  neighboring  gossips  with  infinite  gravity,  and 
held  the  porter's  wife  in  high  favor  on  account  of 
her  talent  for  the  marvellous.  He  was  himself  a 
great  reader  of  old  legends  and  romances,  and  of 
ten  lamented  that  he  could  not  believe  in  them ; 
for  a  superstitious  person,  he  thought,  must  live 
in  a  kind  of  fairy  land. 

Whilst  we  were  all  attention  to  the  parson's 
Btories,  our  ears  were  suddenly  assailed  by  a  burst 
of  heterogeneous  sounds  from  the  hall,  in  which 
were  mingled  something  like  the  clang  of  rude 
minstrelsy,  with  the  uproar  of  many  small  voices 
and  girlish  laughter.  The  door  suddenly  flew 


312  THE  SKZ-fCH-BOOK. 

open,  and  a  train  came  trooping  into  the  rocra, 
that  might  almost  have  been  mistaken  for  the 
breaking  up  of  the  court  of  Fairy.  That  indefat 
igable  spirit,  Master  Simon,  in  the  faithful  dis 
charge  of  his  duties  as  lord  of  misrule,  had  con 
ceived  the  idea  of  a  Christmas  mummery  or  mask 
ing;  and  having  called  in  to  his  assistance  the 
Oxonian  and  the  young  officer,  who  were  equally 
ripe  for  anything  that  should  occasion  romping  and 
merriment,  they  had  carried  it  into  instant  effect. 
The  old  housekeeper  had  been  consulted ;  tho 
antique  clothes-presses  and  wardrobes  rummaged, 
and  made  to  yield  up  the  relics  of  finery  that  had 
not  seen  the  light  for  several  generations ;  the 
younger  part  of  the  company  had  been  privately 
convened  from  the  parlor  and  hall,  and  the  wholo 
had  been  bedizened  out,  into  a  burlesque  imitation 
of  an  antique  mask.* 

Master  Simon  led  the  van,  as  "  Ancient  Christ 
mas,"  quaintly  apparelled  in  a  ruff,  a  short  cloak, 
which  had  very  much  the  aspect  of  one  of  the  old 
housekeeper's  petticoats,  and  a  hat  that  might 
have  served  for  a  village  steeple,  and  must  indubi 
tably  have  figured  in  the  days  of  the  Covenanters. 
From  under  this  his  nose  curved  boldly  forth, 
flushed  with  a  frost-bitten  bloom,  that  seemed  tho 
very  trophy  of  a  December  blast.  He  was  ac 
companied  by  the  blue-eyed  romp,  dished  up  aa 

*  Mnskings  or  mummeries  were  favorite  sports  at  Christ 
mas  in  old  times;  and  the  wardrobes  at  halh  and  manor- 
houses  were  often  laid  under  contribution  to  furnish  dressei 
tnd  fantastic  disguising.  I  strongly  suspect  Master  Simon 
to  have  taken  the  idea  of  his  from  Ben  Jonsou's  u  Masque  of 
Christmas." 


THE   CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  313 

tf  Dame  Mince  Pie,"  in  the  venerable  magnificene* 
of  a  faded  brocade,  long  stomacher,  peaked  hat 
arid  high-heeled  shoes.  The  young  officer  ap. 
peared  as  Robin  Hood,  in  a  sporting  dress  of  Ken 
dal  green,  and  a  foraging  cap  with  a  gold  tassel. 

The  costume,  to  be  sure,  did  not  bear  testimony 
to  deep  research,  and  there  was  an  evident  eye  to 
the  picturesque,  natural  to  a  young  gallant  in  tho 
presence  of  his  mistress.  The  fair  Julia  hung  on 
his  arm  in  a  pretty  rustic  dress,  as  •'•'  Maid  Ma 
rian."  The  rest  of  the  train  had  been  metamor 
phosed  in  various  ways :  the  girls  trussed  up  in  the 
finery  of  the  ancient  belles  of  the  Bracebridge  line, 
and  the  striplings  bewhiskercd  with  burnt  cork,  and 
gravely  clad  in  broad  skirts,  hanging  sleeves,  and 
full-bottomed  wigs,  to  represent  the  character  of 
Roast  Beef,  Plum  Pudding,  and  other  worthies 
celebrated  in  ancient  maskings.  The  whole  was 
under  the  control  of  the  Oxonian,  in  the  appro 
priate  character  of  Misrule  ;  and  I  observed  thai 
he  exercised  rather  a  mischievous  sway  with  hU 
wand  over  the  smaller  personages  of  the  pageant 

The  irruption  of  his  motley  crew,  with  beat  of 
drum,  according  to  ancient  custom,  was  the  con 
summation  of  uproar  and  merriment.  Master  Si 
mon  covered  himself  with  glory  by  the  stateliness 
with  which,  as  Ancient  Christmas,  he  walked  a 
minuet  with  the  peerless,  though  giggling,  Dame 
Min^e  Pie.  It  was  followed  by  a  dance  of  all 
the  characters,  which,  from  its  medley  of  costumes, 
leemed  as  though  the  old  family  portraits  had 
ikippcd  down  from  their  frames  to  join  in  the 
iport.  Different  centuries  were  figuring  at  crosi 


814  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

hands  and  right  and  left ;  the  dark  ages  were  (Jut 
ting  pirouettes  and  rigadooris  ;  and  the  days  of 
Queen  Bess  jigging  merrily  down  the  middle, 
tli rough  a  line  of  succeeding  generations. 

The  worthy  Squire  contemplated  these  fantastic 
pports,  and  this  resurrection  of  his  old  wardrobe, 
with  the  simple  relish  of  childish  delight.  He  stood 
chuckling  and  rubbing  his  hands,  and  scarcely 
hearing  a  word  the  parson  said,  notwithstanding 
that  the  latter  was  discoursing  most  authentically 
on  the  ancient  and  stately  dance  at  the  Paon,  or 
peacock,  from  which  he  conceived  the  minuet  to 
be  derived.1*  For  my  part,  I  was  in  a  continual 
excitement  from  the  varied  scenes  of  whim  and 
innocent  gayety  passing  before  me.  It  was  in 
spiring  to  sec  wild-eyed  frolic  and  warm-hearted 
hospitality  breaking  out  from  among  the  chills 
and  glooms  of  winter,  and  old  age  throwing  off 
his  apathy,  and  catching  once  more  the  freshness 
of  youthful  enjoyment.  I  felt  also  an  interest  in 
the  scene,  from  the  consideration  that  these  fleet 
ing  customs  were  posting  fast  into  oblivion,  and 
that  this  was,  perhaps,  the  only  family  in  England 
in  which  the  whole  of  them  was  still  punctiliously 
observed.  There  was  a  quaintness,  too,  mingled 
with  all  this  revelry,  that  gave  it  a  peculiar  zest ; 
it  was  suited  to  the  time  and  place ;  and  as  the 
old  manor-house  almost  reeled  with  mirth  and 

*  Sir  John  Hawkins,  speaking  of  the  dance  called  th*  Pa- 
von,  from  prtvo,  a  peacock,  says:  "It  is  a  grave  and  majestic 
dance,  the  method  of  dancing  it  anciently  was  by  gcnt.e- 
tn«n  dresse;!  with  cap*  and  swords,  by  those'of  the  long  roil 
tn  their  gowns,  by  the  peers  in  their  mantles,  and  by  the  ladief 
IB  gowns  with  long  trains,  the  motion  whereof  in  dancing 
reiiemblel  that  of  a  peacock." — History  of  Mvsic. 


THE   CHRISTMAS  DINNER.  315 

wassail,  it  seemed  echoing  back  the  joviality  of 
long  departed  years.* 

But  enough  of  Christmas  and  its  gambols  ;  ii 
is  time  for  me  to  pause  in  this  garrulity.  Me- 
tl  links  I  hear  the  questions  asked  by  my  graver 
readers,  "  To  what  purpose  is  all  this  ;  how  is 
the  world  to  be  made  wiser  by  tin's  talk  ?  "  Alas  I 
is  there  not  wisdom  enough  extant  for  the  instruc 
tion  of  the  world  ?  And  if  not,  arc  there  not 
thousands  of  abler  pens  laboring  for  its  improve 
ment  ?  —  It  is  so  much  pleasanter  to  please  than 
to  instruct, — to  play  the  companion  rather  than 
the  preceptor. 

What,  after  all,  is  the  mite  of  wrisdom  that  I 
could  throw  into  the  mass  of  knowledge  ;  or  how 
am  I  sure  that  my  sagest  deductions  may  be  safe 
guides  for  the  opinions  of  others  ?  But  in  writ 
ing  to  amuse,  if  I  fail,  the  only  evil  is  in  my  owe 
disappointment.  If,  however,  I  can  by  any  lucky 
chance,  in  these  days  of  evil,  rub  out  one  wrinkle 
from  the  brow  of  care,  or  beguile  the  heavy  heart 
of  one  moment  of  sorrow ;  if  I  can  now  and  then 
penetrate  through  the  gathering  film  of  misanthro 
py,  prompt  a  benevolent  view  of  human  nature, 
and  make  my  reader  more  in  good-humor  with  his 
fellow-beings  and  himself,  surely,  surely,  I  sliail 
not  then  have  written  entirely  in  vain. 

*  At  the  time  of  the  first  publication  of  this  papijr,  the  pict- 
fire  of  an  old-fashioned  Christmas  in  the  country  W39  pro 
nounced  by  some  as  out  of  date.  The  author  hud  afterwards 
an  opportunity  of  witnessing  almost  all  the  customs  above 
described,  existing  in  unexpected  vigor  in  the  skirts  of  Derby- 
ehire  and  Yorkshire,  where  he  passed  the  Christmas  holidays. 
The  reader  will  find  some  notice  of  them  in  the  author's  ao 
count  of  hip  sojourn  at  Newstead  Abbey. 


LONDON   ANTIQUES. 

1  do  walk 

Moihinkfl  like  Guido  Vanx,  with  my  dark  ianthorn, 
Stealing  (o  set  the  town  o'  lire;  i'  tli'  country 
I  should  be  taken  for  William  o'  the  Wisp, 
Or  liobiu  Goodi'ellow.  —  FLUTCUEU. 

AM  somewhat  of  an  antiquity-hunter 
and  am  fond  of  exploring  London  in  quest 
of  the  relics  of  old  times.  These  ara 
principally  to  be  found  in  the  depths  of  the  city, 
swallowed  up  and  almost  lost  in  a  wilderness  of 
brick  and  mortar  ;  but  deriving  poetical  and  roman 
tic  interest  from  the  commonplace  prosaic  world 
around  them.  I  was  struck  with  an  instance  of 
the  kind  in  the  course  of  a  recent  summer  ramble 
into  the  city ;  for  the  city  is  only  to  be  explored 
to  advantage  in  summer  time,  when  free  from 
the  smoke  and  fog,  and  rain  and  mud  of  winter. 
I  had  been  buffeting  for  some  time  against  the 
current  of  population  setting  through  Fleet  Street, 
The  warm  weather  had  unstrung  my  nerves,  and 
made  me  sensitive  to  every  jar  and  jostle  and  dis 
cordant  sound.  The  flesh  was  weary,  (he  spirit 
taint,  and  I  was  getting  out  of  humor  with  tho 
bustling  busy  throng  through  which  I  had  to 
struggle,  when  in  a  fit  of  desperation  I  tore  my 
way  through  the  crowd,  plunged  into  a  by-lane, 
and  after  passing  through  several  obscure  uooki 
316 


LONDON  ANTIQUES.  317 

and  angles,  emerged  into  a  quaint  and  quiet  court 
with  a  grass-plot  in  the  centre,  overhung  by  elms, 
and  kept  perpetually  fresh  and  green  by  a  foun 
tain  with  its  sparkling  jet  of  water.  A  student, 
with  book  in  hand,  was  seated  oh  a  stone  bench, 
partly  reading,  partly  meditating  on  the  move 
ments  of  two  or  three  trim  nursery  maids  with 
thoir  infant  charges. 

I  was  like  an  Arab,  who  had  suddenly  come 
upon  an  oasis  amid  the  panting  sterility  of  the 
desert.  By  degrees  the  quiet  and  coolness  of  the 
place  soothed  my  nerves  and  refreshed  my  spirit. 
I  pursued  my  walk,  and  came,  hard  by,  to  a  very 
ancient  chapel,  with  a  low  -  browed  Saxon  portal 
of  massive  and  rich  architecture.  The  interior 
was  circular  and  lofty,  and  lighted  from  above. 
Around  were  monumental  tombs  of  ancient  date, 
on  which  were  extended  the  marble  effigies  of 
warriors  in  armor.  Some  had  the  hands  de 
voutly  crossed  upon  the  breast;  others  grasped 
the  pommel  of  the  sword,  menacing  hostility  even 
in  the  tomb  !  —  while  the  crossed  legs  of  several 
indicated  soldiers  of  the  Faith  who  had  been  on 
crusades  to  the  Holy  Land.  I  was,  in  fact,  in 
the  chapel  of  the  Knights  Templars,  strangely  sit 
uated  in  the  very  centre  of  sordid  traffic ;  and  I 
do  not  know  a  more  impressive  lesson  for  the 
man  of  the  world  than  thus  suddenly  to  turn 
aside  from  the  highway  of  busy  money-seeking 
life,  and  sit  down  among  these  shadowy  sepul- 
cLres,  where  all  is  twilight,  dust,  and  forge tfulness. 

In  a  subsequent  tour  of  observation,  I  encoun 
tered  another  of  these  relics  of  a  "  foregone  world  w 


318  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

locked  up  in  the  heart  of  the  city.  I  had  been 
wandering  for  some  time  through  dull  monotonous 
streets,  destitute  of  anything  to  strike  the  eye  or 
excite  the  imagination,  when  I  beheld  before  mo 
a  Gothic  gateway  of  mouldering  antiquity.  It 
opened  into  a  spacious  quadrangle  forming  tho 
court-yard  of  a  stately  Gothic  pile,  the  portal  of 
which  stood  invitingly  open.  It  was  apparently 
a  public  edifice,  and  as  I  was  antiquity  hunting, 
I  ventured  in,  though  with  dubious  steps.  Meet 
ing  no  one  either  to  oppose  or  rebuke  my  intru 
sion,  I  continued  on  until  I  found  myself  in  a 
great  hall,  with  a  lofty  arched  roof  and  oaken  gal 
lery,  all  of  Gothic  architecture.  At  one  end  of 
the  hall  was  an  enormous  fireplace,  with  wooden 
settles  on  each  side ;  at  the  other  end  was  a  raised 
platform,  or  dais,  the  seat  of  state,  above  which 
was  the  portrait  of  a  man  in  antique  garb,  with  a 
long  robe,  a  ruff,  and  a  venerable  gray  beard. 

The  whole  establishment  had  an  air  of  monastic 
quiet  and  seclusion,  and  what  gave  it  a  mysteri 
ous  charm,  was,  that  I  had  not  met  with  a  human 
being  since  I  had  passed  the  threshold.  Encour 
aged  by  this  loneliness,  I  seated  myself  in  a  recess 
of  a  large  bow-window,  which  admitted  a  broad 
flood  of  yellow  sunshine,  checkered  here  and  there 
by  tints  from  panes  of  colored  glass ;  while  oo 
open  casement  let  in  the  soft  summer  air.  Here, 
leaning  my  head  on  my  hand,  and  my  arm  on  an 
old  oaken  table,  I  indulged  in  a  sort  of  reverie 
about  what  might  have  been  the  ancient  uses  of 
tins  edifice.  It  had  evidently  been  of  monastic 
origin;  perhaps  one  of  those  collegiate -establish- 


LONDON  ANTIQUES.  319 

mcnts  built  of  yore  for  the  promotion  of  learning, 
where  the  patient  monk%  in  the  ample  solitude  of 
the  cloister,  added  page  to  page  and  volume  to 
volume,  emulating  in  the  productions  of  his  brain 
the  magnitude  of  the  pile  he  inhabited. 

As  I  was  seated  in  this  musing  mood,  a  small 
panelled  door  in  an  arch  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
hall  was  opened,  and  a  number  of  gray-headed  old 
men,  clad  in  long  black  cloaks,  came  forth  one  by 
one :  proceeding  in  that  manner  through  the  hall, 
without  uttering  a  word,  each  turning  a  pale  face 
on  me  as  he  passed,  and  disappearing  through  a 
door  at  the  lower  end. 

I  was  singularly  struck  with  their  appearance ; 
their  black  cloaks  and  antiquated  air  comported 
with  the  style  of  this  most  venerable  and  myste 
rious  pile.  It  was  as  if  the  ghosts  of  the  departed 
years,  about  which  I  had  been  musing,  were  pass 
ing  in  review  before  me.  Pleasing  myself  with 
Buch  fancies,  I  set  out,  in  the  spirit  of  romance, 
to  explore  what  I  pictured  to  myself  a  realm  of 
shadows,  existing  in  the  very  centre  of  substantial 
realities. 

My  ramble  led  me  through  a  labyrinth  of  irite 
rior  courts,  and  corridors,  and  dilapidated  cloisters 
for  the  main  edifice  had  many  additions  and  do- 
pendencies,  built  at  various  times  and  in  various 
Styles  ;  in  one  open  space  a  number  of  boys,  who 
evidently  belonged  to  the  establishment,  were  at 
their  sports  ;  but  everywhere  I  observed  those  mys 
terious  old  gray  men  in  black  mantles,  sometimes 
sauntering  alone,  sometimes  conversing  in  groups 
they  appeared  to  be  the  pervading  genii  of  the 


320  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

place.  I  now  called  to  mind  what  I  had  read  of 
certain  colleges  in  old  times,  where  judicial  astrol 
ogy,  geomancy,  necromancy,  and  other  forbidden 
and  magical  sciences  were  taught.  Was  this  an 
establishment  of  the  kind,  and  were  these  black- 
cloaJ'ed  old  men  really  professors  of  the  black  art  ? 

These  surmises  were  passing  through  my  mind 
as  ray  eye  glanced  into  a  chamber,  hung  round 
wit-h  all  kinds  of  strange  and  uncouth  objects  :  im 
plements  of  savage  warfare  ;  strange  idols  and 
stuffed  alligators ;  bottled  serpents  and  monsters 
decorated  the  mantel-piece  ;  while  on  the  high 
tester  of  an  old-fashioned  bedstead  grinned  a  hu 
man  skull,  flanked  on  each  side  by  a  dried  cat. 

I  approached  to  regard  more  narrowly  thir 
mystic  chamber,  which  seemed  a  fitting  labora 
tory  for  a  necromancer,  when  I  was  startled  at 
beholding  a  human  countenance  staring  at  me 
from  a  dusky  corner.  It  was  that  of  a  small, 
shrivelled  old  man,  with  thin  cheeks,  bright  eyes, 
and  gray  wiry  projecting  eyebrows.  I  at  first 
doubted  whether  it  were  not  a  mummy  curiously 
preserved,  but  it  moved,  and  I  saw  that  it  was 
alive.  It  was  another  of  these  black-cloaked  old 
men,  and,  as  I  regarded  his  quaint  physiognomy, 
his  obsolete  garb,  and  the  hideous  and  sinister 
objects  by  which  he  was  surrounded,  I  began  to 
persuade  myself  that  I  had  come  upon  the  arch 
fengo,  who  ruled  over  this  magical  fraternity. 

Seeing  me  pausing  before  the  door,  he  rose 
arrl  invited  me  to  enter.  I  obeyed,  with  singular 
hardihood,  for  how  did  I  know  whether  a  wave 
of  liis  wand  might  not  metamorphose  me  inte 


LONDON  ANTIQUES.  321 

some  strange  monster,  or  conjure  me  into  one  of 
the  bottles  on  his  mantel-piece  ?  He  proved, 
however,  to  be  anything  but  a  conjurer,  and  his 
simple  garrulity  soon  dispelled  all  the  magic  and 
mystery  with  which  T  had  enveloped  this  anti 
quated  pile  and  its  no  less  antiquated  inhabitants. 

It  appeared  that  I  Lad  made  my  way  into  the 
centre  of  an  ancient  asylum  for  superannuated 
tradesmen  and  decayed  householders,  with  which 
tvas  connected  a  school  for  a  limited  number  of 
boys.  It  was  founded  upwards  of  two  centuries 
since  on  an  old  monastic  establishment,  and  re 
tained  somewhat  of  the  conventual  air  and  char 
acter.  The  shadowy  line  ot  old  men  in  black 
mantles  who  had  passed  betbre  me  in  the  hall, 
and  whom  I  had  elevated  into  magi,  turned  out 
to  be  the  pensioners  returning  from  morning  ser 
vice  in  the  chapel. 

John  Hallum,  the  little  collector  of  curiosities, 
whom  I  had  nuule  the  arch  magician,  had  been 
for  six  years  a  resident  of  the  place,  and  had  dec 
orated  this  final  nestling-place  of  his  old  age  with 
relics  and  rarities  picked  up  in  the  course  of  his 
life.  According  to  his  own  account  he  had  beeii 
somewhat  of  a  traveller ;  having  been  once  in 
France,  and  very  near  making  a  visit  to  Holland* 
lie  regretted  not  having  visited  the  latter  country, 
u  as  then  he  might  have  said  he  had  been  there." 
He  was  evidently  a  traveller  of  the  simplest  kind. 

He  was  aristocratical  too  in  his  notions  ;  keep 
ing  aloof,  as  I  found,  from  the  ordinary  run  of 
pensioners.  His  chief  associates  were  a  blind 
man  who  spoke  Latin  and  Greek,  of  both  which 

21 


322  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

languages  Hallura  was  profoundly  ignorant  aiul 
a  broken-clown  gentleman  who  had  run  through  a 
fortune  of  forty  thousand  pounds  left  him  by  hia 
father,  and  ten  thousand  pounds,  the  marriage 
portion  of  his  wife.  Little  Ilallum  seemed  to 
consider  it  an  indubitable  sign  of  gentle  blood  as 
well  as  of  lofty  spirit  to  be  able  to  squander  such 
enormous  sums. 

P.  S.  The  picturesque  remnant  of  old  times 
into  which  I  have  thus  beguiled  the  reader  is  what 
is  called  the  Charter  House,  originally  the  Char 
treuse.  It  was  founded  in  1G11,  on  the  remains 
of  an  ancient  convent,  by  Sir  Thomas  Sutton, 
being  one  of  those  noble  charities  set  on  foot  by 
individual  munificence,  and  kept  up  with  the 
quaintness  and  sanctity  of  ancient  times  amidst 
the  modem  changes  and  innovations  of  London 
Here  eighty  broken-down  men,  who  had  seen  bet 
ter  days,  are  provided,  in  their  old  age,  with  food 
clothing,  fuel,  and  a  yearly  allowance  for  private 
expenses.  They  dine  together  as  did  the  monk? 
of  old,  in  the  hall  which  had  been  the  refectory  o) 
the  original  convent.  Attached  to  the  establish 
ment  is  a  school  for  forty-four  boys. 

Stow,  whose  work  I  have  consulted  on  the  sub 
ject,  speaking  of  the  obligations  of  the  gray- headed 
pensioners,  says :  "  They  are  not  to  intermeddle 
with  any  business  touching  the  affairs  of  the  hos 
pital,  but  to  attend  only  to  the  service  of  God,  and 
take  thankfully  what  is  provided  for  them,  with* 
out  muttering,  murmuring,  or  grudging.  None  to 
wear  weapon,  long  hair,  colored  boot?,  spurs  01 


LONDON  ANTIQUES.  323 

colored  shoes,  feathers  in  their  hats,  or  any  ruffian 
like  or  unseemly  apparel,  but  such  as  becomes  hoa 
pital  men  to  wear."  "  And  in  truth,"  adds  Stow 
44  happy  are  they  that  are  so  taken  from  the  care? 
and  sorrows  of  the  world,  and  fixed  in  so  good  a 
place  as  these  old  men  arc  ;  having  nothing  to 
care  for,  but  the  good  of  their  souls,  to  serve  God 
and  to  live  in  brotherly  love." 


For  the  amusement  of  such  as  have  been  inter 
ested  by  the  preceding  sketch,  taken  down  from 
my  own  observation,  and  who  may  wish  to  know  a 
little  more  about  the  mysteries  of  London,  I  sub 
join  a  modicum  of  local  history,  put  into  my  hands 
by  an  odd-looking  old  gentleman  in  a  small  brown 
wig  and  a  snuff-colored  coat,  with  whom  I  te- 
came  acquainted  shortly  after  my  visit  to  the 
Charter  House.  I  confess  I  was  a  little  dubious 
at  first,  whether  it  was  not  one  of  those  apocry 
phal  tales  often  passed  off  upon  inquiring  travel 
lers  like  myself;  and  which  have  brought  our  gen 
eral  character  for  veracity  into  such  unmerited 
reproach.  On  making  proper  inquiries,  however, 
J  have  received  the  most  satisfactory  assurances 
of  the  author's  probity ;  and,  indeed,  have  been 
told  that  he  is  actually  engaged  in  a  full  and  par 
ticular  account  of  the  very  interesting  region  ia 
which  he  resides ;  of  which  the  following  xjay  he 
considered  inorely  us  a  foretaste. 


LITTLE    BRITAIN. 


What  1  write  is  most  true  ....  I  have  a  whole  booke  of 
cases  lying  l>v  me  which  if  I  should  sette  foorth,  some  grave 
a,untiet]ts(  within  the  hearing  of  Bow  bell^)  would  be  out  of 
ehurity  with  me.  —  NASIIE. 

jN  the  centre  of  the  great  city  of  London 
lies  a  small  neighborhood,  consisting  of 
a  cluster  of  narrow  streets  and  courts, 
of  very  venerable  and  debilitated  houses,  which 
goes  by  the  name  of  LITTLE  BRITAIN.  Christ 
Church  School  and  St.  Bartholomew's  Hospital 
bound  it  on  the  west ;  Smithfield  and  Long  Lane 
on  the  north  ;  Aldersgate*  Street,  like  an  arm  of 
the  sea,  divides  it  from  the  eastern  part  of  the 
city ;  whilst  the  yawning  gulf  of  Bull-and-Mouth 
Street  separates  it  from  Butcher  Lane,  and  the 
regions  of  Newgate.  Over  this  little  territory, 
thus  bounded  and  designated,  the  great  dome  of 
St.  Paul's,  swelling  above  the  intervening  homes 
of  Paternoster  Row,  Amen  Corner,  and  Avo 
Maria  Lano,  looks  down  with  an  air  of  motherly 
protect!  Dn. 

This  quarter  derives  its  appellation  from  having 
been,  in  ancient  times,  the  residence  of  the  Dukes 
of  Brittany.  As  London  increased,  however, 
rank  and  fashion  rolled  off  to  the  west,  and  trade 
creeping  on  at  their  heels,  took  possession  of  their 
deserted  abodes.  For  some  time  Little  Britain 
324 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  325 

became  the  great  mart  of  learning,  and  was  peo 
pled  I)}'  the  busy  and  prolific  race  of  bor&sellera 
these  also  gradually  deserted  it,  and,  emigrating 
beyond  the  great  strait  of  Newgate  Street,  settled 
down  in  Paternoster  Row  and  St.  Paul's  Church* 
yard,  where  they  continue  to  increase  and  multi* 
ply  even  at  the  present  day. 

15 lit  though  thus  falling  into  decline,  Little 
Britain  siill  bears  traces  of  its  former  splendor. 
There  are  several  houses  ready  to  tumble  down, 
Ili3  fronts  of  which  are  magnificently  enriched 
with  old  oaken  carvings  of  hideous  faces,  unknown 
birds,  beasts,  and  fishes:  and  fruits  and  flowers 
which  it  would  perplex  a  naturalist  to  classify. 
There  are  also,  in  Aklersgate  Street,  certain  re 
mains  of  what  were  once  spacious  and  lordly  fam 
ily  mansions,  but  which  have  in  latter  days  been 
subdivided  into  several  tenements.  Here  may 
often  be  found  the  family  of  a  petty  tradesman, 
with  its  trumpery  furniture,  burrowing  among 
the  relics  of  antiquated  finery,  in  great  rambling, 
time-stained  apartments,  with  fretted  ceilings, 
gilded  cornices,  and  enormous  marble  fireplaces. 
The  lanes  and  courts  also  contain  many  smaller 
houses,  net  on  so  grand  a  scale,  but,  like  your 
small  ancient  gentry,  sturdily  maintaining  their 
claims  to  equal  antiquity.  These  have  their  ga 
ble  ends  to  the  street ;  great  bow-windows,  with 
diamond  panes  set  in  lead,  grotesque  carvings,  and 
vow  arched  doorways  * 

*  It  is  evident  that  the  author  of  this  interesting  comnuni- 
cation  has  included,  in  his  general  title  of  Little  firiinin^ 
many  of  those  liulc  lanes  and  courts  that  belong  immediately 
to  Cloth  Fair. 


326  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

In  this  most  venerable  and  sheltered  little  nest 
have  I  passed  several  quiet  years  of  existence, 
Comfortably  lodged  in  the  second  floor  of  one  of 
the  smallest  but  oldest  edifices.  My  sitting-root!? 
is  an  old  wainscoted  chamber,  with  small  panels, 
and  set  off  with  a  miscellaneous  array  of  furni 
ture.  I  have  a  particular  respect  for  three  or  four 
high -backed  daw-footed  chairs,  covered  with  tar 
nished  brocade,  which  bear  the  marks  of  having 
seen  better  days,  and  have  doubtless  figured  in 
some  of  the  old  palaces  of  Little  Britain.  They 
Beem  to  me  to  keep  together,  and  to  look  clown 
witli  sovereign  contempt  upon  their  leathern-bot 
tomed  neighbors :  as  I  have  seen  decayed  gentry 
carry  a  high  head  among  the  plebeian  society  with 
which  they  were  reduced  to  associate.  The  whole 
front  of  my  sitting-room  is  taken  up  with  a  bow- 
window,  on  the  panes  of  which  are  recorded  the 
names  of  previous  occupants  for  many  generations, 
mingled  with  scraps  of  very  indifferent  gentleman 
like  poetry,  written  in  characters  which  I  can 
scarcely  decipher,  and  which  extol  the  charms  of 
many  a  beauty  of  Little  Britain,  who  has  long, 
long  since  bloomed,  faded,  and  passed  away.  As 
I  am  an  idle  personage,  with  no  apparent  occupa 
tion,  and  pay  my  bill  regularly  every  week,  I  am 
looked  upon  as  the  only  independent  gentleman 
of  the  neighborhood ;  and,  being  curious  to  learn 
lire  internal  state  of  a  community  so  apparently 
thut  up  within  itself,  I  have  managed  to  work 
my  way  into  all  the  concerns  and  secrets  of  the 
place. 

Little  Britain  may  truly  be  called  the  heart*! 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  327 

cole  of  the  city,  the  stronghold  of  true  John  Bull 
ism.  It  is  a  fragment  of  London  as  it  was  in  its 
better  days,  with  its  antiquated  folks  and  fashions. 
Here  flourish  in  great  preservation  many  of  the 
holiday  games  and  customs  of  yore.  The  inhab 
itants  most  religiously  eat  pancakes  on  Shrove 
Tuesday,  hot- cross-buns  on  Good  Friday,  and  roast 
goose  at  Michaelmas ;  they  send  love-letters  on 
Valentine's  Day,  burn  the  pope  on  the  fifth  of  No 
vember,  and  kiss  all  the  girls  under  the  mistletoe 
at  Christmas.  Roast  beef  and  plum-pudding  are 
also  held  in  superstitious  veneration,  and  port  and 
sherry  maintain  their  grounds  as  the  only  true 
English  wines  ;  all  others  being  considered  vile 
outlandish  beverages. 

Little  Britain  has  its  long  catalogue  of  city  won 
ders,  which  its  inhabitants  consider  the  wonders 
of  the  world ;  such  as  the  great  bell  of  St.  .Paul's, 
which  sours  all  the  beer  when  it  tolls ;  the  figures 
that  strike  the  hours  at  St.  Dunstan's  clock ;  the 
Monument;  the  lions  in  the  Tower;  and  the 
wooden  giants  in  Guildhall.  They  still  believe  in 
dreams  and  fortune-telling,  and  an  old  woman  that 
lives  in  Bull-and-Mouth  Street  makes  a  tolerable 
subsistence  by  detecting  stolen  goods,  and  promis 
ing  the  girls  good  husbands.  They  arc  apt  to  be 
rendered  uncomfortable  by  comets  and  eclipses ; 
and  if  a  dog  howls  dolefully  at  night,  it  is  looked 
upon  as  a  sure  sign  of  a  death  in  the  place.  There 
are  even  many  ghost-stories  current,  paiticularly 
concerning  the  old  mansion-houses ;  in  several  of 
which  it  is  said  strange  sights  are  sometimes  seen, 
ladies,  the  former  in  full-bottomed  wigs. 


328  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

hanging  sleeves,  and  swords,  the  latter  in  lappets, 
stays,  hoops,  and  brocade,  have  been  seen  walking 
up  and  down  the  great  waste  chamber's,  on  moon 
light  nights ;  and  are  supposed  to  be  the  shades 
of  the  ancient  proprietors  in  their  court-dresses. 
Little  Britain  has  likewise  its  sages  and  great 
men.  One  of  the  most  important  of  the  former  is 
a  tall,  dry  old  gentleman,  of  the  name  of  Skryme, 
who  keeps  a  small  apothecary's  shop.  He  has  a  ca 
daverous  countenance,  full  of  cavities  and  projec 
tions,  with  a  brown  circle  round  each  eye  like  a 
pair  of  horned  spectacles.  He  is  much  thought  of 
by  the  old  women,  who  consider  him  as  a  kind  of 
conjurer,  because  he  has  two  or  three  stuffed  alli 
gators  hanging  up  in  his  shop,  and  several  snakes 
in  bottles.  He  is  a  great  reader  of  almanacs  and 
newspapers,  and  is  much  given  to  pore  over  alarm 
ing  accounts  of  plots,  conspiracies,  fires,  earth 
quakes,  and  volcanic  eruptions,  which  last  phe 
nomena  he  considers  as  signs  of  the  times.  He  has 
always  some  dismal  tale  of  the  kind  to  deal  out  to 
his  customers  with  their  doses,  and  thus  at  the 
same  time  puts  both  soul  and  body  into  an  uproar. 
He  is  a  great  believer  in  omens  and  predictions, 
and  has  the  prophecies  of  Robert  Nixon  and 
Mother  Shipton  by  heart.  No  man  can  make  so 
much  out  of  an  eclipse,  or  even  an  unusually  dark 
day,  and  he  shook  the  tail  of  the  last  comet  over 
the  heads  of  his  customers  and  disciples  until 
they  were  nearly  frightened  out  of  their  wits.  Ho 
has  lately  got  hold  of  a  popular  legend  or  prophecy, 
on  which  he  has  been  unusually  eloquent.  There 
has  been  a  saying  current  among  the  ancient  si) >y  Is ; 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  329 

who  treasure  up  these  things,  that  when  the  grass* 
hopper  on  the  top  of  the  Exchange  shook  haiida 
with  the  dragon  on  the  top  of  Bow  Church  steeple 
fearful  events  would  take  place.  This  strange  con 
junction,  it  seems,  has  as  strangely  come  to  pass 
The  same  architect  has  been  engaged  lately  on  the 
repairs  of  the  cupola  of  the  Exchange,  and  the 
steeple  of  Bow  Church ;  and,  fearful  to  relate,  tho 
dragon  and  the  grasshopper  actually  lie,  cheek  by 
jole,  in  the  yard  of  his  workshop. 

u  Others,"  as  Mr.  Skryme  is  accustomed  to  say, 
"may  go  star-gazing,  and  look  for  conjunctions  in 
the  heavens,  but  here  is  a  conjunction  on  the  earth, 
near  at  home,  and  under  our  own  eyes,  wnich  sur 
passes  all  the  signs  and  calculations  of  astrologers." 
Since  these  portentous  weathercocks  have  thus 
laid  their  heads  together,  wonderful  events  had  al 
ready  occurred.  The  good  old  king,  not  withstand 
ing  that  he  had  lived  eighty-two  years,  had  all  at 
once  given  up  the  ghost ;  another  king  had  mount 
ed  the  throne  ;  a  royal  duke  had  died  suddenly,  — 
another,  in  France,  had  been  murdered ;  there  had 
been  radical  meetings  in  all  parts  of  the  kingdom ; 
the  bloody  scenes  at  Manchester  ;  the  great  plot  in 
Cato  Street;  —  and,  above  all,  the  queen  had  re 
turned  to  England !  All  these  sinister  events  aro 
recounted  by  Mr.  Skryme,  with  a  mysterious  look, 
and  a  dismal  shake  of  the  head  ;  and  being  taken 
with  his  drugs,  and  associated  in  the  minds  of  hia 
auditors  with  stuffed  sea-monsters,  bottled  serpents, 
And  his  own  visage,  which  is  a  title-page  of  tribula* 
tion,  they  have  spread  great  gloom  through  the 
minds  of  the  people  of  Little  Britain.  They  shako 


330  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

their  heads  whenever  they  go  by  Bow  Church,  anfl 
observe,  that  they  never  expected  any  good  to 
oome  of  taking  down  that  steeple,  which  in  old 
times  told  nothing  but  glad  tidings,  as  the  history 
of  Wliittingtou  and  his  Cat  bears  witness. 

The  rival  oracle  of  Little  Britain  is  a  substantial 
cheesemonger,  who  lives  in  a  fragment  of  one  of 
the  old  family  mansions,  and  is  as  magnificently 
lodged  as  a  round-bellied  mite  in  the  midst  of  one 
of  his  own  Clieshires.  Indeed,  he  is  a  man  of  no 
little  standing  and  importance  ;  and  his  renown 
extends  through  Huggin  Lane,  and  Lad  Lane,  and 
even  unto  Aldermanbury.  His  opinion  is  very 
much  taken  in  affairs  of  state,  having  read  the 
Sunday  papers  for  the  last  half  century,  together 
witli  the  "  Gentleman's  Magazine,"  Rapin's  "  His 
tory  of  England,"  and  the  "Naval  Chronicle."  His 
head  is  stored  with  invaluable  maxims  which  have 
borne  the  test  of  time  and  use  for  centuries.  It  is 
his  firm  opinion  that  "  it  is  a  moral  impossible,"  so 
long  as  England  is  true  to  herself,  that  anything 
can  shake  her ;  and  he  has  much  to  say  on  the 
subject  of  the  national  debt ;  which,  somehow  or 
other,  he  proves  to  be  a  great  national  bulwark 
and  blessing.  He  passed  the  greater  part  of  his 
life  in  the  purlieus  of  Little  Britain,  until  of  late 
years,  when,  having  become  rich,  and  grown  into 
the  dignity  of  a  Sunday  cane,  he  begins  to  take 
his  pleasure  and  see  the  world.  He  has  therefore 
made  several  excursions  to  Hampstead,  High  gate, 
and  other  neighboring  towns,  where  he  has  passed 
whole  afternoons  in  looking  back  upon  the  me- 
krcpolis  through  a  telescope,  and  endeavoring  tc 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  331 

descry  the  steeple  of  St.  Bartholomew's.  Nort 
a  stagc-coachmau  of  Bull-and-Mouth  Street  but 
touches  his  hat  as  he  passes ;  and  he  is  consid 
ercd  quite  a  patron  at  the  coach-ollice  of  the  Goose 
and  Gridiron,  St.  Paul's  Churchyard.  His  fam 
ily  have  been  very  urgent  for  him  to  make  an  ex 
pedition  to  Margate,  but  he  has  great  doubts  of 
those  new  gimcracks,  the  steamboats,  and  indeed 
thinks  himself  too  advanced  in  life  to  undertake 
Bea-voyagcs. 

Little  Britain  has  occasionally  its  factions  and 
divisions,  aiid  party  spirit  ran  very  high  at  one 
time  in  consequence  of  two  rival  Burial  Societies 
being  set  up  in  the  place.  One  held  its  meeting 
at  the  Swan  and  Horse  Shoe,  and  was  patronized 
by  the  cheesemonger ;  the  other  at  the  Cock  jand 
Crown,  under  the  auspices  of  the  apothecary :  it 
is  needless  to  say  that  the  latter  was  the  most 
flourishing.  I  have  passed  an  evening  or  two  at 
each,  and  have  acquired  much  valuable  informa 
tion,  as  to  the  best  mode  of  being  buried,--  the 
comparative  merits  of  churchyards,  together  with 
divers  hints  on  the  subject  of  patent-iron  comas. 
I  have  heard  the  question  discussed  in  all  its 
bearings  as  to  the  legality  of  prohibiting  the  lat 
ter  on  account  of  their  durability.  The  feuds 
occasioned  by  these  societies  have  happily  died 
of  late ;  but  they  were  fora  long  time  prevailing 
themes  of  controversy,  the  people  of  Little  Biitaic 
being  extremely  solicitous  of  funereal  honor;  an3 
of  lying  comfortably  in  their  graves. 

Besides  these  two  funeral  societies  there  is  a 
third  of  quite  a  different  cast,  which  tends  to  throw 


332  THE  SKETCR-B(,OK. 

the  sunshine  of  good-humor  over  the  whole  neiglx 
borhood.  It  meets  once  a  week  at  a  little  old 
fashioned  house,  kept  by  a  jolly  publican  of  the 
name  of  Wagstaft^  and  bearing  i'or  insignia  a  ro- 

splendent  hall'-iiioou,  with  a  most  seductive  bunch 
of  grapes.  The  old  edifice  is  covered  with  in 
scriptions  to  catch  the  eye  of  the  thirsty  wayfarer; 
such  as  "  Truman,  Ilanbury,  and  Co.'s  Entire," 
"  Wine,  Rum,  and  Brandy  Vaults,"  "Old  Tom, 
Rum  and  Compounds,  etc."  This  indeed  lias 
been  a  temple  of  Bacchus  and  Momus  from  time 
immemorial.  It  has  always  been  in  the  family 
of  the  WagstafTs,  so  that  its  history  is  tolerably 
preserved  by  the  present  landlord.  It  was  much 
frequented  by  the  gallants  and  cavalieros  of  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth,  and  was  looked  into  now  and 
then  by  the  wits  of  Charles  the  Second's  day. 
But  what  WagstafF  principally  prides  himself 
upon  is,  that  Henry  the  Eighth,  in  one  of  his 
nocturnal  rambles,  broke  the  head  of  one  of  his 
ancestors  with  his  famous  walking-staff.  This 
however  is  considered  as  rather  a  dubious  and 
vain-glorious  boast  of  the  landlord. 

The  club  which  now  holds  its  weekly  sessions 
here  goes  by  the  name  of  "  The  Roaring  Lads  of 
Little  Britain."  They  abound  in  old  catches, 
glees,  and  choice  stories,  that  are  traditional  in 
the  place,  and  not  to  be  met  with  in  any  other 
part  of  the  metropolis.  There  is  a  madcap  un 
dertakcr  who  is  inimitable  at  a  merry  song  ;  but 
the  life  of  the  elub,  and  indeed  the  prime  wit  of 
Little  Britain,  is  bully  WagstatF  himself.  Ilia 
anoestors  were  ail  wags  before  him,  and  he  luur 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  333 

fall eri ted  will  the  inn  a  large  stock  of  songs  and 
jokes,  which  go  with  it  from  generation  to  gener 
ation  ns  heirlooms,  lie  is  a  dapper  little  fellow, 
with  bandy  legs  and  pot-belly,  a  red  (ace,  with 
moist  merry  eye,  and  a  little  shock  of  gray  half 
behind.  At  the  opening  of  every  club-night  he  is 
called  in  to  sing  his  u  Confession  of  Faith,"  whicb 
{3  the  famous  old  drinking-trowi  from  "  Gammer 
Gurton's  Needle."  lie  sings  it,  to  be  sure  with 
many  variations,  as  he  received  it  from  his  fa 
ther's  lips  ;  for  it  had  been  a  standing  favorite  at 
the  Half-Moon  and  Bunch  of  Grapes  ever  since 
it  was  written :  nay  he  affirms  that  his  predeces 
sors  have  often  had  the  honor  of  singing  it  before 
the  nobility  and  gentry  at  Christmas  mummeries, 
when  Little  Britain  was  in  all  its  glory.* 


*  As  mine  host  of  the  Half-Moon's  "  Confession  of"  Faith  " 
may  not  be  familiar  to  the  majority  of  readers,  ami  as  it  is  a 
specimen  of  the  current  songs  of  Little  Britain,  I  subjoin  it  in 
its  original  orthography.  1  would  observe,  that  the  wbole 
club  always  join  in  the  chorus  with  a  fearful  thumping  on 
the  table  and  clattering  of  pewter  pots. 

I  cannot  eate  but  lytle  meate, 

My  stomacke  is  not  good, 
But  sure  1  thinke  that  1  can  drinke 

With  him  that  weares  a  hood 
Though  I  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care, 

I  nothing  am  a  colde,* 
I  stulfmy  skyn  so  full  within, 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
fk&rw,  Backe  ami  syde  go  bare,  go  bare, 

Booth  foote  and  hand  go  coldc. 
But  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  ynoughe 

Whether  it  be  new  or  olde. 

1  have  no  rost,  but  a  nut  brawne  toste, 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  fyre; 
A  little  breade  shall  do  me  steade, 

Much  breade  1  not  desyre. 


334  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

It  would  do  one's  heart  good  to  hear,  on  a  clul> 
night,  the  shouts  of  merriment,  the  snatches  of 
Bong,  and  now  and  then  the  choral  bursts  of  lialf 
a  dozen  discordant  voices,  which  issue  from  this 
jovial  mansion.  At  such  times  the  street  is  lined 
with  listeners,  who  enjoy  a  delight  equal  to  that 
of  gazing  into  a  confectioner's  window,  or  snuff 
ing  up  the  steams  of  a  cookshop. 

There  are  two  annual  events  which  produce 
great  stir  and  sensation  in  Little  Britain ;  these 
are  St.  Bartholomew's  fair,  and  the  Lord  Mayor's 
day.  During  the  time  of  the  fair,  which  is  held 
in  the  adjoining  regions  of  Smithfield,  there  is 
nothing  going  on  but  gossiping  and  gadding  about. 
The  late  quiet  streets  of  Little  Britain  are  over 
run  with  an  irruption  of  strange  figures  and 

No  frost  nor  snow,  nor  winde,  I  trowe, 

Can  hurte  inee,  if  1  wolde, 
I  am  so  wrapt  and  throwly  lapt 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Chorus.  Backe  aiid  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc. 

And  Tyb  my  wife,  that,  as  her  lyfe, 

hovcth  well  good  ale  to  seeke, 
Full  oft  drynkes  shee,  tyll  ye  may  see, 

The  teafes  run  downe  her  cheeke. 
Then  doth  she  towle  to  me  the  bowle, 

Even  as  a  mault-worme  sholde, 
And  sayth,  sweete  harte,  I  took  my  parte 

Of  this  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Ckonu.  Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc. 

Now  let  them  drvnke,  tyll  they  nod  and  wink* 

Even  as  goode  fellowes  sholde  doe, 
They  shall  not  mysse  to  have  the  bliase, 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to; 
And  all  poore  soules  that  have  scowred  bowloa, 

Or  have  them  lustily  trolde, 
God  save  the  lyves  of' them  and  their  wives, 

Whether  they  be  yonge  or  olde. 
Chonu.  Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  ate. 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  335 

faces ;  every  tavern  is  a  scene  of  rout  and  revel 
The  fiddle  and  the  song  tire  heard  from  the  tap 
room,  morning,  noon,  and  night ;  and  at  each  win 
dow  may  be  seen  some  group  of  boon  companions, 
\vith  half-shut  eyes,  hats  on  one  side,  pipe  in  mouth, 
and  tankard  in  hand,  fondling,  and  prosing,  and 
singing  maudlin  songs  over  their  liquor.  Even 
the  sober  decorum  of  private  families,  which  I 
must  say  is  rigidly  kept  up  at  other  times  among 
my  neighbors,  is  no  proof  against  this  Saturnalia, 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  keeping  maid-servanta 
within  doors.  Their  brains  are  absolutely  set 
madding  with  Punch  and  the  Puppet-Show  ;  the 
Flying  Horses  ;  Signior  Polito ;  the  Fire-Eater  ; 
the  celebrated  Mr.  Paap ;  and  the  Irish  Giant. 
The  children,  too,  lavish  all  their  holiday  money 
in  toys  and  gilt  gingerbread,  and  fill  the  house 
with  the  Lilliputian  din  of  drums,  trumpets,  and 
penny-whistles. 

But  the  Lord  Mayor's  day  is  the  great  anniver 
sary.  The  Lord  Mayor  is  looked  up  to  by  the 
inhabitants  of  Little  Britain  as  the  greatest  poten 
tate  upon  earth ;  his  gilt  coach  with  six  horses  as 
the  summit  of  human  splendor  ;  and  his  procession, 
with  all  the  Sheriffs  and  Aldermen  in  his  train, 
as  the  grandest  of  earthly  pageants.  How  they 
exult  in  the  idea,  that  the  King  himself  dare  not 
enter  the  city,  without  first  knocking  at  the  gate 
>f  Temple  Bar,  and  asking  permission  of  the  Lord 
Mayor :  for  if  he  did,  heaven  and  earth  !  there  la 
no  knowing  what  might  be  the  consequence. 
Tho  man  in  armor  who  rides  before  the  Lord 
Way  or,  and  is  the  city  chamoion,  has  orders  ta 


336  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

cut  do  wr.  everybody  that  offends  against  the  dig 
nity  of  the  city  ;  and  then  there  is  the  little  mar 
with  a  velvet  porringer  on  his  head,  who  site  al 
the  window  of  the  state-coach,  and  holds  the  city 
Sword,  as  long  as  a  pike-staff —  Odd's  blood  !  If 
he  once  draws  that  sword,  Majesty  itself  is  not 
safe! 

Under  the  protection  of  this  mighty  potentate, 
therefore,  the  gool  people  of  Little  Britain  sleep 
hi  peace.  Temple  Bar  is  an  effectual  barrier 
against  all  interior  foes  ;  and  as  to  foreign  inva 
sion,  the  Lord  Mayor  has  but  to  throw  himself 
into  the  Tower,  call  in  the  train-bands,  and  put 
the  standing  army  of  Beef-eaters  under  arms,  and 
he  may  bid  defiance  to  the  world  ! 

Thus  wrapped  up  in  its  own  concerns,  its  own 
habits,  and  its  own  opinions,  Little  Britain  has 
long  flourished  as  a  sound  heart  to  this  great 
fungous  metropolis.  I  have  pleased  myself  with 
considering  it  as  a  chosen  spot,  where  the  prin 
ciples  of  sturdy  John  Bullisin  were  garnered  up, 
like  seed-corn,  to  renew  the  national  character, 
when  it  had  run  to  waste  and  degeneracy.  I  have 
rejoiced  also  in  the  general  spirit  of  harmony  that 
prevailed  throughout  it ;  for  though  there  might 
now  and  then  be  a  few  clashes  of  opinion  between 
the  adherents  of  the  cheesemonger  and  the  apoth 
ecary,  and  an  occasional  feud  between  the  burial 
Reciuties,  yet  these  were  but  transient  clouds,  and 
Boon  passed  away.  The  neighbors  met  with 
good- will,  parted  with  a  shake  of  the  hand,  and 
naver  abused  each  other  except  behind  theil 
backs. 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  337 

I  could  give  rare  descriptions  of  snug  junket 
ing  parties  at  which  I  have  been  present ;  where 
we  played  at  All-Fours,  Pope-Joan,  Tom-come- 
tickle-mc,  and  other  choice  old  games  ;  and  where 
we  sometimes  had  a  good  old  English  country 
dance  to  the  tune  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley 
Once  a  year  also  the  neighbors  would  gather 
together,  and  go  on  a  gypsy  party  to  Epping 
Forest.  It  would  have  done  any  man's  heart 
good  to  see  the  merriment  that  took  place  here 
as.  we  banqueted  on  the  gross  under  the  trees. 
How  we  made  the  woods  ring  with  bursts  of 
laughter  at  the  songs  of  little  Wogstaff  and  the 
merry  undertaker !  After  dinner,  too,  the  young 
folks  would  play  at  blind-man's-buff  and  hide-and- 
seek;  and  it  \vas  amusing  to  see  them  tangled 
among  the  briers,  and  to  hear  a  fine  romping  girl 
now  and  then  squeak  from  among  the  bushes. 
The  elder  folks  would  gather  round  the  cheese 
monger  and  the  apothecary, .  to  hear  them  talk 
politics ;  for  they  generally  brought  out  a  news 
paper  in  their  pockets,  to  pass  away  time  in  the 
country.  They  would  now  and  then,  to  be  sure, 
get  a  little  warm  in  argument ;  but  their  disputes 
were  always  adjusted  by  reference  to  a  worthy 
old  umbrella-maker  in  a  double  chin,  who,  never 
exactly  comprehending  the  subject,  managed 
somehow  or  other  to  decide  in  favor  of  both 
parties. 

All  empires,  however,  says  some  philosopher  or 

historian,  are  doomed  to  changes  and  revolutions. 

Luxury  and  innovation  creep  in  ;  factions  arise  ; 

and  families  now  and  then  spring  up,  whose  ambi« 

22 


338  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

tion  and  intrigues  throw  the  whole  system  into 
corifusbii.  Thus  in  latter  days  has  the  tranquil 
lity  of  Little  Britain  been  grievously  disturbed, 
and  its  golden  simplicity  of  manners  threatened 
with  total  subversion,  by  the  aspiring  family  of  a 
retired  butcher. 

The  family  of  the  Lambs  had  long  been  among 
the  most  thriving  and  popular  in  the  neighbor 
hood  ;  the  Miss  Lambs  were  the  belles  of  Little 
Britain,  and  everybody  was  pleased  when  Old 
Lamb  had  made  money  enough  to  shut  up  shop, 
and  put  his  name  on  a  brass  plate  on  his  door. 
In  an  evil  hour,  however,  one  of  the  Miss  Lambs 
had  the  honor  of  being  a  lady  in  attendance  on 
the  Lady  Mayoress,  at  her  great  annual  ball,  on 
which  occasion  she  wore  three  towering  ostrich 
feathers  on  her  head.  The  family  never  got 
over  it;  they  were  immediately  smitten  with  a 
passion  for  high  life ;  set  up  a  one-horse  carriage, 
put  a  bit  of  gold  lace  round  the  errand-boy's  hat, 
and  have  been  the  talk  and  detestation  of  the 
whole  neighborhood  ever  since.  They  could  no 
longer  be  induced  to  play  at  Pope-Joan  or  blind- 
man's-buff;  they  could  endure  no  dances  but 
quadrilles,  which  nobody  had  ever  heard  of  in 
Little  Britain  ;  and  they  took  to  reading  novels, 
talking  bad  French,  and  playing  upon  the  piano. 
Their  brother,  too,  who  had  been  articled  to  an 
attorney,  set  up  for  a  dandy  and  a  critic,  charao 
ters  hitherto  unknown  in  these  parts;  and  ho 
confounded  the  worthy  folks  exceedingly  by  talk 
ing  about  Kean,  the  opera,  and  the  "  Edinburgh 
Review." 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  339 

What  was  still  worse,  the  Lambs  gave  a  grand 
bill,  to  which  they  neglect ed  to  invite  any  of  their 
old  neighbors  ;  but  they  had  a  great  deul  of  gen 
teel  company  from  Theobald':*  Road,  Red- Lion 
Square,  and  other  parts  towards  the  west.  There 
were  several  beaux  of  their  brother's  acquaintance 
from  Gray's  Jim  Lane  and  Ilatton  Garden ;  and 
not  less  than  three  Aldermen's  ladies  with  their 
daughters.  This  was  not  to  be  forgotten  or  for 
given.  All  Little  Britain  was  in  an  uproar  with 
the  smacking  of  whips,  the  lashing  of  miserable 
horses,  and  the  rattling  and  the  jingling  of  hack 
ney  coaches.  The  gossips  of  the  neighborhood 
might  be  seen  popping  their  nightcaps  out  at  every 
window,  watching  the  crazy  vehicles  rumble  by ; 
and  there  was  a  knot  of  virulent  old  cronies,  that 
kept  a  lookout  from  a  house  just  opposile  the  re 
tired  butcher's,  and  scanned  and  criticized  every 
one  that  knocked  at  the  door. 

This  dance  was  a  cause  of  almost  open  war,  and 
the  whole  neighborhood  declared  they  would  have 
nothing  more  to  say  to  the  Lambs.  It  is  true 
that  Mrs.  Lamb,  when  she  had  no  engagements 
with  her  quality  acquaintance,  would  give  little 
biundrurh  tea-junketings  to  some  of  her  old  cro« 
nies,  "quite,"  as  she  would  say,  "in  a  friendly 
way;"  and  it  is  equally  true  that  her  invitations 
wore  always  accepted,  in  spite  of  all  previous  vows 
to  the  contrary.  Nay,  the  good  ladies  would  sit 
ami  be  delighted  with  the  music  of  the  Miaa 
Lambs,  who  would  condescend  to  strum  an  Irish 
melody  for  them  on  the  piano  ;  and  they  would 
listen  with  wonderful  interest  to  Mrs.  Lamb's 


840  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

anecdotes  of  Alderman  Phuket's  family,  of  Port- 
solumward,  and  the  Miss  Timbcrlakcs,  the  rich 
hi.'ircsses  of  Crutched-Friars ;  but  then  they  re 
lieved  their  consciences,  and  averted  the  reproaches 
of  their  confederates,  by  canvassing  at  the  uexi 
gossiping  convocation  everything  that. had  passed, 
and  pulling  the  Lambs  and  their  rout  all  to  pieces. 

The  only  one  of  the  family  that  could  not  bo 
made  fashionable  was  the  retired  butcher  him 
self.  Honest  Lamb,  in  spite  of  the  meekness  of 
his  name,  was  a  rough,  hearty  old  fellow,  with  the 
voice  of  a  lion,  a  head  of  black  hair  like  a  shoe- 
brush,  and  a  broad  face  mottled  like  his  own  beef 
It  was  in  vain  that  the  daughters  always  spoke 
of  him  as  "  the  old  gentleman,"  addressed  him  as 
"  papa,"  in  tones  of  infinite  softness,  and  endeav 
ored  to  coax  him  into  a  dressing-gown  and  slip 
pers,  and  other  gentlemanly  habits.  Do  what 
they  might,  there  was  no  keeping  down  the 
butcher.  His  sturdy  nature  wotdd  break  through 
nil  their  glozings.  He  had  a  hearty  vulgar  good- 
humor  that  was  irrepressible.  His  very  jokes 
made  his  sensitive  daughters  shudder ;  and  lie 
persisted  in  wearing  his  blue  cotton  coat  of  a 
morning,  dining  at  two  o'clock,  and  having  a  "  bit 
of  sausage  with  his  tea." 

lie  was  doomed,  however,  to  share  the  unpopu 
larity  of  his  family.  He  found  his  old  comrades 
gradually  growing  cold  and  civil  to  him  ;  no  lunger 
laughing  at  his  jokes ;  and  now  and  then  throw 
ing  out  a  iling  at  "some  people,"  and  a  hint  about 
"quality  binding."  This  both  nettled  and  per 
plexed  the  honest  butcher ;  and  his  wife  ancJ 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  341 

daughters,  with  tlic  consummate  policy  of  th<j 
shrewder  sex,  taking  advantage  of  the  circum 
stance,  at  length  prevailed  upon  him  to  give  up 
his  afternoon's  pipe  and  tankard  RtWftgsttuT&j  to 
sit  after  dinner  by  himself,  and  take  his  pint  of 
port — a,  liquor  he  detested  —  and  to  nod  in  his 
chair  in  solitary  and  dismal  gentility. 

The  Mis~s  Lambs  might  now  be  seen  flaunting 
Along  the  streets  in  French  bonnets,  with  unknown 
beaux ;  and  talking  and  laughing  so  loud  that  it 
distressed  the  nerves  of  every  good  lady  within 
hearing.  They  even  went  so  far  as  to  attempt 
patronage,  and  actually  induced  a  French  dancing- 
master  to  set  up  in  the  neighborhood;  but  the 
worthy  folks  of  Little  Britain  took  fire  at  it,  and 
did  so  persecute  the  poor  Gaul,  that  he  was  fain 
to  pack  up  fiddle  and  dancing-pumps,  and  decamp 
with  such  precipitation,  that  he  absolutely  forgot 
to  pay  for  his  lodgings. 

I  had  flattered  myself,  at  first,  with  the  idea 
that  all  this  fiery  indignation  on  the  part  of  the 
community  was  merely  the  overflowing  of  their 
zeal  for  good  old  English  manners,  and  their  hor 
ror  of  innovation;  and  I  applauded  the  silent 
contempt  they  were  so  vociferous  in  expressing, 
for  upstart  pride,  French  fashions,  and  the  Miss 
Lambs.  But  I  grieve  to  say  that  I  soon  perceived 
the  infection  had  taken  hold  ;  and  that  my  neigh 
bors,  after  condemning,  were  beginning  to  follow 
their  example.  I  overheard  my  landlady  impor 
tuning  her  husband  to  let  their  daughters  have 
one  quarter  at  French  and  music,  and  that  they 
night  take  a  few  lessons  in  quadrille.  I  eveo 


S42  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

saw,  in  the  course  of  a  few  Sundays,  no  lees  than 
five  French  bonnets,  precisely  like  those  of  tha 
Miss  Lambs,  parading  about  Little  Britain. 

I  still  had  my  hopes  that  all  this  folly  would 
gradually  die  away  ;  that  the  Lambs  might  move 
out  of  the  neighborhood  ;  might  die,  or  might 
run  away  with  attorneys'  apprentices;  and  that 
quiet  and  simplicity  might  be  again  restored  to 
the  community.  But  unluckily  a  rival  power 
arose.  An  opulent  oilman  died,  and  left  a  widow 
with  a  large  jointure  and  a  family  of  buxom 
daughters.  The  young  ladies  had  long  been  re 
pining  in  secret  at  the  parsimony  of  a  prudent 
father,  which  kept  down  all  their  elegant  aspir 
ings.  Their  ambition,  being  now  no  longer  re 
strained,  broke  out  into  a  blaze,  and  they  openly 
took  the  field  against  the  family  of  the  butcher. 
It  is  true  that  the  Lambs,  having  had  the  first 
etart,  had  naturally  an  advantage  of  them  in  the 
fashionable  career.  They  could  speak  a  little  bad 
French,  play  the  piano,  dance  quadrilles,  and  had 
formed  high  acquaintances  ;  but  the  Trotters  were 
not  to  be  distanced.  When  the  Lambs  appeared 
with  two  feathers  in  their  hats,  the  Miss  Trotters 
mounted  four,  and  of  twice  as  fine  colors.  If  the 
Lambs  gave  a  dance,  the  Trotters  were  sure  not 
to  be  behindhand;  and  though  they  might  not 
boast  of  as  good  company,  yet  they  had  double 
the  number,  and  were  twice  as  merry. 

The  whole  community  has  at  length  divided  it 
self  into  fashionable  factions,  under  the  banners 
of  these  two  families.  The  old  games  of  Pope- 
Joan  and  Tom-come-tickle-me  are  entirely  dis« 


LITTLE  BRITAIN.  343 

carded;  there  is  no  such  tiling  as  getting  ip  an 
honest  country-dance  ;  and  on  my  attempting  to 
kiss  a  young  lady  under  the  mistletoe  last  Christ 
mas,  I  was  indignantly  repulsed  ;  the  Miss  Larabfl 
having  pronounced  it  "  shocking  vulgar."  Bitter 
rivalry  has  also  broken  out  as  to  the  most  fash 
ionable  part  of  Little  Britain ;  the  Lambs  stand 
ing  up  for  the  dignity  of  Cross-Keys  Square,  and 
the  Trotters  for  the  vicinity  of  St.  Bartholomew's. 

Thus  is  this  little  territory  torn  by  factions  and 
internal  dissensions,  like  the  great  empire  whose 
name  it  bears ;  and  what  will  be  the  result  would 
puzzle  the  apothecary  himself,  with  all  his  talent 
at  prognostics,  to  determine ;  though  I  apprehend 
that  it  will  terminate  in  the  total  downfall  of  gen 
uine  John  Bullism. 

The  immediate  effects  are  extremely  unpleasant 
to  me.  Being  a  single  man,  and,  as  I  observed 
before,  rather  an  idle  good-for-nothing  personage, 
I  have  been  considered  the  only  gentleman  by  pro 
fession  in  the  place.  I  stand  therefore  in  high 
favor  with  both  parties,  and  have  to  hear  all  their 
cabinet  councils  and  mutual  backbitings.  As  I 
am  too  civil  not  to  agree  with  the  ladies  on  all 
occasions,  I  have  committed  myself  most  horribly 
with  both  parties,  by  abusing  their  opponents.  I 
might  manage  to  reconcile  this  to  my  conscience, 
which  is  a  truly  accommodating  one,  but  I  cannot 
to  my  apprehension  —  if  the  Lambs  and  Trotters 
ever  come  to  a  reconciliation,  and  compare  notes, 
I  am  ruined ! 

I  have  determined,  therefore,  to  beat  a  retreat 
\R  time,  and  am  actually  looking  out  for  some  other 


344  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

nest  in  this  great  city,  where  old  English  manners 
are  still  kept  up  ;  where  French  is  neither  eaten, 
drunk,  danced,  nor  spoken ;  and  where  there  are 
no  fashionable  families  of  retired  tradesmen. 
This  found,  I  will,  like  a  veteran  rat,  hasten  away 
before  I  have  an  old  house  about  my  ears  ;  bid  a 
long,  though  a  sorrowful  adieu  to  my  present  abode, 
and  leave  the  rival  factions  of  the  Lambs  and 
the  Trotters  to  divide  the  distracted  empire  of 
LITTLE  BRITAIN. 


STRATFOHD-ON-AVON. 


JThou  soft-flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  stream 

Of  things  more  than  mortal  sweet  Shakspeare  would  drearp  j 

The  fairies  by  moonlight  dance  round  his  green  bed, 

For  hallow'd  the  turf  is  which  pillow'd  his  head. 

GAKRICB.. 

J  0  a  homeless  man,  who  has  no  spot  on 
this  wide  world  which  he  can  truly  call 
his  own,  there  is  a  momentary  feeling  ol 
something  like  independence  and  territorial  con 
sequence,  when,  after  a  weary  day's  travel,  he 
kicks  off  his  boots,  thrusts  his  feet  into  slippers, 
and  stretches  himself  before  an  inn  fire.  Let  the 
world  without  go  as  it  may ;  let  kingdoms  rise  or 
fall,  so  lung  as  lie  has  the  wherewithal  to  pay  hia 
bill,  he  is,  for  the  time  being,  the  very  monarch  of 
all  he  surveys.  The  arm-chair  is  his  throne,  the 
poker  his  sceptre,  and  the  little  parlor,  some  twelve 
feet  square,  his  undisputed  empire.  It  is  a  mor> 
«cl  of  certainty,  snatched  from  the  midst  of  the 
Uncertainties  of  life  ;  it  is  a  sunny  moment  gleam 
ing  out  kindly  on  a  cloudy  day ;  and  lie  who  hfi.8 
advanced  some  way  on  a  pilgrimage  of  existence, 

345 


C46  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

knows  the  importance  of  husbanding  even  morsel* 
and  moments  of  enjoyment.  "  Shall  I  not  take 
mine  ease  in  mine  inn?"  thought  I,  as  I  gave  the 
fire  a  stir,  lolled  back  in  my  elbow-chair,  and  cast 
a  complacent  look  about  the  little  parlor  of  the 
Red  Horse,  at  Stratford-on-Avon.  . 

The  words  of  sweet  Shakspeare  were  just  pass 
ing  through  my  mind  as  the  clock  struck  mid 
night  from  the  tower  of  the  church  in  which  he 
lies  buried.  There  was  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door, 
and  a  pretty  chambermaid,  putting  in  her  smiling 
face,  inquired,  with  a  hesitating  air,  whether  I  had 
rung.  I  understood  it  as  a  modest  hint  that  it  was 
time  to  retire.  My  dream  of  absolute  dominion 
was  at  an  end;  so  abdicating  my  throne,  like  a 
prudent  potentate,  to  avoid  being  deposed,  and 
putting  the  Stratford  Guide-Book  under  my  arm, 
as  a  pillow  companion,  I  went  to  bed,  and  dreamt 
all  night  of  Shakspeare,  the  jubilee,  and  David 
Garrick. 

The  next  morning  was  one  of  those  quickening 
mornings  which  we  sometimes  have  in  early 
spring  ;  for  it  was  about  the  middle  of  March. 
The  chills  of  a  long  winter  had  suddenly  given 
way ;  the  north  wind  had  spent  its  last  gasp ; 
and  a,  mild  air  came  stealing  from  the  west, 
breathing  the  breath  of  life  into  nature,  and  woo 
ing  every  bud  and  ilower  to  burst  forth  into  fra 
grance  and  beauty. 

I  had  come  to  Stratford  on  a  poetical  pilgrim* 
age.  My  first  visit  was  to  the  house  where 
Shakspeare  was  born,  and  where,  according  to 
tradition,  he  was  brought  up  to  his  father's  crafl 


STRA  TFORD-  ON- A  VON.  347 

of  Ttfool-combing.  It  i3  a  small,  mean-lr>oking 
edifice  of  wood  and  plaster,  a  true  nestling-place 
of  genius,  which  seems  to  delight  in  hatching  its 
offspring  in  by-corners.  The  walls  of  its  squalid 
chambers  are  covered  with  names  and  inscriptions 
in  every  language,  by  pilgrims  of  all  nations, 
ranks,  and  conditions,  from  the  prince  to  the  pea* 
ant ;  and  present  a  simple,  but  striking  instance 
of  the  spontaneous  and  universal  homage  of  man 
kind  to  the  great  poet  of  nature. 

The  house  is  shown  by  a  garrulous  old  lady, 
in  a  frosty  red  face,  lighted  up  by  a  cold  blue 
anxious  eye,  and  garnished  with  artificial  locks  of 
flaxen  hair,  curling  from  under  an  exceedingly 
dirty  cap.  She  was  peculiarly  assiduous  in  ex 
hibiting  the  relics  with  which  this,  like  all  other 
celebrated  shrines,  abounds.  There  was  the  shat 
tered  stock  of  the  very  matchlock  with  which 
Shakspeare  shot  the  deer,  on  his  poaching  exploits. 
There,  too,  was  his  tobacco-box ;  which  proves 
that  he  was  a  rival  smoker  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh ; 
the  sword  also  with  which  he  played  Hamlet; 
and  the  identical  lantern  with  which  Friar  Lau 
rence  discovered  Romeo  and  Juliet  at  the  tomb ! 
There  was  an  ample  supply  also  of  Shakspeare's 
mulberry-tree,  which  seems  to  have  as  extraor 
dinary  powers  of  self-multiplication  as  tho  wood 
of  the  true  cross ;  of  which  there  is  enough  ex 
tant  to  build  a  ship  of  the  line. 

The  most  favorite  object  of  curiosity,  however^ 
is  Shakspeare's  chair.  It  stands  in  the  chimney 
nook  of  a  small  gloomy  chamber,  just  behind 
\vhat  was  his  father's  shop.  Here  he  may  many 


348  THE  SKETCH-LOOK. 

a  time  have  sat  when  a  boy,  watching  the  slowly 
revolving  spit  with  all  the  longing  of  an  urchin; 
or  of  an  evening,  listening  to  the  cronies  and  gos 
sips  of  Stratford,  dealing  forth  cluireli/anl  tales 
and  legendary  anecdotes  of  the  troublesome  times 
of  England.  In  this  chair  it  is  the  custom  of 
every  one  that  visits  the  house  to  sit:  whether 
this  be  done  with  the  hope  of  imbibing  any  of  the 
inspiration  of  the  bard  I  am  at  a  loss  to  say,  I 
merely  mention  the  fact ;  and  mine  hostess  pri 
vately  assured  me,  that,  though  built  of  solid  oak, 
such  was  the  fervent  zeal  of  devotees,  that  the 
chair  had  to  be  new  bottomed  at  least  once  in  three 
years.  It  is  worthy  of  notice  also,  in  the  history 
of  this  extraordinary  chair,  that  it  partakes  some 
thing  of  the  volatile  nature  of  the  Santa  Casa  of 
Loretto,  or  the  ilying  chair  of  the  Arabian  en 
chanter  ;  for  though  sold  some  few  years  since  to 
a  northern  princess,  yet,  strange  to  tell,  it  has 
found  its  way  back  again  to  the  old  chimmey 
oorncr. 

I  am  always  of  easy  faith  in  such  matters,  and 
am  ever  willing  to  be  deceived,  where  the  deceit 
is  pleasant  and  costs  nothing.  I  am  therefore  a 
ready  believer  in  relics,  legends,  and  local  anec 
dotes  of  goblins  and  great  men  ;  and  would  advise 
all  travellers  who  travel  for  their  gratification  to 
be  the  same.  What  is  it  to  us,  whether  these 
gtories  be  true  or  false,  so  long  as  we  can  persuade 
ourselves  into  the  belief  of  them,  and  enjoy  all 
the  charm  of  the  reality?  There  is  nothing  like 
resolute  good-humored  credulity  in  these  matters  j 
wid  on  this  occasion  I  went  even  so  far  as  willingly 


STRA  TFORD-  ON- A  VON.  3-1U 

to  believe  the  claims  of  mine  hostess  to  a  lintsal 
descent  from  the  poet,  when,  luckily  for  my  faith, 
she  put  into  my  hands  a  pl«iy  of  her  own  compo* 
sition.  which  set  all  belief  in  her  consanguinity  at 
defiance. 

From  the  birthplace  of  Shakspeare  a  few  pacea 
brought  me  to  his  grave.  lie  lies  buried  in  tha 
chancel  of  the  parish  church,  a  large  and  vener 
able  piio,  mouldering  with  age,  but  richly  orna 
mented.  It  stands  on  the  banks  of  the  Avon, 
on  an  embowered  point,  and  separated  by  adjoin 
ing  gardens  from  the  suburbs  of  the  town.  Its  sit 
uation  is  quiet  and  retired ;  the  river  runs  mur 
muring  at  the  foot  of  the  churchyard,  and  the  elms 
which  grow  upon  its  banks  droop  their  branches 
into  its  clear  bosom.  An  avenue  of  limes,  the 
boughs  of  which  are  curiously  interlaced,  so  as 
to  form  in  summer  an  arched  way  of  foliage,  leads 
up  from  the  gate  of  the  yard  to  the  church  porch. 
The  graves  arc  overgrown  with  grass ;  the  gray 
tombstones,  some  of  them  nearly  sunk  into  the 
earth,  are  half  covered  with  moss,  which  has  like 
wise  tinted  the  reverend  old  building.  Small  birds 
.  have  built  their  nests  among  the  cornices  and  fis 
sures  of  the  walls,  and  keep  up  a  continual  flutter 
and  chirping ;  and  rooks  are  sailing  and  cawing 
about  its  lofty  gray  spire. 

lu  the  course  of  my  rambles  I  met  with  the 
gray -headed  sexton,  Edmonds,  and  accompanied 
him  home  to  get  the  key  of  the  church.  He  had 
lived  in  Stratford,  man  and  boy,  for  eighty  years, 
and  seemed  still  to  consider  himself  a  vigorous 
man,  with  the  trivial  exception  that  he  had  nearly 


850  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

lost  the  use  of  his  legs  for  a  few  years  past.  Hid 
dwelling  was  a  cottage,  looking  out  upou  the 
Avon  and  its  bordering  meadows ;  and  was  a  pic 
ture  of  that  neatness,  order,  and  comfort,  which 
pervade  the  humblest  dwellings  in  this  country. 
A  low  white-washed  room,  with  a  stone  floor 
carefully  scrubbed,  served  for  parlor,  kitchen,  an 
hall.  Rows  of  pewter  and  earthen  dishes  glit 
tercd  along  the  dresser.  On  an  old  oaken  table, 
well  rubbed  and  polished,  lay  the  family  Bible 
and  prayer-book,  and  the  drawer  contained  tho 
family  library,  composed  of  about  half  a  score  of 
'A'cll-thummcd  volumes.  An  ancient  clock,  that 
important  article  of  cottage  furniture,  ticked  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room  ;  with  a  bright  warming- 
pan  hanging  on  one  side  of  it,  and  the  old  man's 
horn-handled  Sunday  cane  on  the  other.  Tho 
fireplace,  as  usual,  was  wide  and  deep  enough  to 
admit  a  gossip  knot  within  its  jambs.  In  one 
corner  sat  the  old  man's  grand-daughter  sewing,  a 
pretty  blue-eyed  girl,  —  and  in  the  opposite  cor 
ner  was  a  superannuated  crony,  whom  he  ad 
dressed  by  the  name  of  John  Ange,  and  who,  I 
found,  had  been  his  companion  from  childhood.  • 
They  had  played  together  in  infancy ;  they  bad 
worked  together  in  manhood ;  they  were  now 
tottering  about  and  gossiping  away  the  evening  yf 
life ;  and  in  a  short  time  they  will  probably  be 
buried  together  in  the  neighboring  churchyard 
It  is  not  often  that  we  see  two  streams  of  exist 
ence  running  thus  evenly  and  tranquilly  side  bj 
ride ;  it  is  only  in  such  qn'et  "  bosom  scenes  "  of 
life  that  they  are  to  be  met  with. 


STRA  TFORD-  ON- A  VON.  351 

I  bad  Loped  to  gather  some  traditionary  aceo 
dotes  of  the  bard  from  these  ancient  chroniclers  5 
but  they  had  nothing  new  to  impart.  The  long 
interval  during  which  Shakspcare's  writing  lay  in 
comparative  neglect  has  spread  its  shadow  over 
liis  history ;  and  it  is  his  good  or  evil  lot  that 
scarcely  any  tiling  remains  to  his  biographers  but 
a  scanty  handful  of  conjectures. 

The  sexton  and  his  companion  had  been  em 
ployed  as  carpenters  on  thr»  preparations  for  tho 
celebrated  Stratford  jubilee,  and  they  remembered 
Garrick,  the  prime  mover  of  the  fete,  who  super 
intended  the  arrangements,  and  who,  according  to 
the  sexton,  was  "  a  short  punch  man,  very  lively 
and  bustling."  John  Ange  had  assisted  also  in 
cutting  down  Shakspeare's  mulberry-tree,  of  which 
.he  had  a  morsel  in  his  pocket  for  sale ;  no  doubt 
a  sovereign  quickener  of  literary  conception. 

I  was  grieved  to  hear  these  two  worthy  wights 
speak  very  dubiously  of  the  eloquent  dame  who 
shows  the  Shakspeare  house.  John  Ange  shook 
his  head  when  I  mentioned  her  valuable  collection 
of  relics,  particularly  her  remains  of  the  mulberry- 
tree  ;  and  the  old  sexton  even  expressed  a  doubt 
as  to  Shakspeare  having  been  born  in  her  lunise. 
I  soon  discovered  that  he  looked  upon  her  mansion 
with  an  evil  eye,  as  a  rival  to  the  poet's  tomb  * 
the  latter  having  comparatively  but  few  visitors. 
Thus  it  is  that  historians  diifer  at  the  very  outset, 
and  mere  pebbles  make  the  stream  of  truth  diverge 
into  different  channels  even  at  the  fountain-head. 

We  approached  the  church  through  the  avenue 
of  limes,  and  entered  by  a  Gothic  porch,  highly 


352  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


,  with  carved  doors  of  massive  oak. 
The  interior  is  spacious,  and  the  architecture  and 
embellishments  superior  to  those  of  most  country 
chi'  relies.  There  are  several  ancient  monuments 
of  nobility  and  gentry,  over  some  of  which  hang 
funeral  escutcheons,  and  banners  dropping  piece 
meal  from  the  walls.  The  tomb  of  Shakupearo 
b  in  the  (  hancel.  The  place  is  solemn  and  sepul 
chral.  Tali  elms  wave  before  the  pointed  win 
dows,  and  the  Avon,  which  runs  at  a  short  dis 
tance  from  the  walls,  keeps  up  a  low  perpetual 
murmur.  A  flat  stone  marks  the  spot  where  the 
bard  is  buried.  There  are  four  lines  inscribed 
on  it,  said  to  have  been  written  by  himself,  and 
which  have  in  them  something  extremely  awful. 
If  they  are  indeed  his  own,  they  show  that  solic 
itude  about  the  quiet  of  the  grave,  which  seems 
natural  to  fine  sensibilities  and  thoughtful  minds. 

Good  friend,  for  Jesus'  sake  forbeare 
To  dig  the  dust  enclosed  here. 
Blessed  be  he  that  spares  these  stones, 
And  curst  be  he  that  moves  my  bones. 

Just  over  the  grave,  in  a  niche  of  the  wall,  ia 
a  bust  of  Shakspcare,  put  up  shortly  after  his 
death,  and  considered  as  a  resemblance.  The 
aspect  is  pleasant  and  serene,  with  a  finely  arched 
forehead,  and  I  thought  I  could  read  in  it  clear 
indications  of  that  cheerful,  social  disposition,  by 
ttLich  he  was  as  much  characterized  among  his 
contemporaries  as  by  the  vastness  of  his  genius. 
The  inscription  mentions  his  age  at  the  time  of 
his  decease  —  fifty-three  years  ;  an  untimely  ieath 
for  the  world  :  for  what  fruit  might  not  have 


8TRA  TFOED-  ON- A  VON.  353 

been  expected  from  the  golden  autumn  of  such  a 
mind,  sheltered  as  it  was  from  the  stormy  vicis 
situdes  of  life,  and  flourishing  in  the  sunshine 
of  popular  and  royal  favor. 

The  inscription  on  the  tombstone  has  not  beoa 
without  its  effect.  It  has  prevented  the  removal 
of  his  remains  from  the  bosom  of  his  native  place 
to  Westminster  Abbey,  which  was  at  one  time 
contemplated.  A  few  years  since  also,  as  some 
laborers  were  digging  to  make  an  adjoining  vault, 
the  earth  caved  in,  so  as  to  leave  a  vacant  space 
almost  like  an  arch,  through  which  one  might 
have  reached  into  his  grave.  jSo  one,  however, 
presumed  to  meddle  with  his  remains  so  awfully 
guarded  by  a  malediction ;  and  lest  any  of  the 
idle  or  the  curious,  or  any  collector  of  relics, 
should  be  tempted  to  commit  depredations,  the 
old  sexton  kept  watch  over  the  place  for  two  days, 
until  the  vault  wad  finished  and  the  aperture  closed 
again.  He  told  me  that  he  had  made  bold  to 
look  in  at  the  hole,  but  could  see  neither  coffin 
nor  bones  ;  nothing  but  dust.  It  was  something, 
I  thought,  to  have  seen  the  dust  of  Shakspeare. 

Next  to  this  grave  are  those  of  his  wife,  his 
favorite  daughter,  Mrs.  Hall,  and  others  of  his 
family.  On  a  tomb  close  by,  also,  is  a  full-length 
effigy  of  his  old  friend  John  Combe  of  usurious 
memory ;  on  whom  he  is  said  to  have  written  a 
ludicrous  epitaph.  There  are  other  monuments 
nround,  but  the  mind  refuses  to  dwell  on  anything 
that  is  not  connected  with  Shakspeare.  His  idea 
pervades  the  place ;  the  whole  pile  seems  but  aa 
his  mausoleum.  The  feelings,  no  longer  checked 
23 


354  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

and  thwarted  by  dcubt,  here  indulge  in  perfect 
confidence :  other  traces  of  him  may  be  false  01 
dubious,  but  here  is  palpable  evidence  and  abso 
lute  certainty.  As  I  trod  the  sounding  pavement, 
there  was  something  intense  and  thrilling  in  the 
idea,  that,  in  very  truth,  the  remains  of  Shakspeare 
were  mouldering  beneath  my  feet.  It  was  a  locg 
time  before  I  could  prevail  upon  myself  to  leave 
the  place ;  and  as  I  passed  through  the  church 
yard,  I  plucked  a  branch  from  one  of  the  yew- 
trees,  the  only  relic  that  I  have  brought  from 
Stratford. 

I  had  now  visited  the  usual  objects  of  a  pil 
grim's  devotion,  but  I  had  a  desire  to  see  the  old 
family  seat  of  the  Lucys,  at  Charlecot,  and  to  ram 
ble  through  the  park  where  Shakspeare,  in  com 
pany  with  some  of  the  roysters  of  Stratford,  com 
mitted  his  youthful  offence  of  deer-stealing.  In 
this  hare-brained  exploit  we  are  told  that  he  was 
taken  prisoner,  and  carried  to  the  keeper's  lodge, 
where  he  remained  all  night  in  doleful  captivity. 
When  brought  into  the  presence  of  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy,  his  treatment  must  have  been  galling  and 
humiliating ;  for  it  so  wrought  upon  his  spirit  as 
to  produce  a  rough  pasquinade,  which  was  aifiz&d 
to  the  park  gate  at  Charlecot.* 

*  The  following  is  the  only  stanza  extant  of  tl.ia    lam 
poon: — 

A  parliament  member,  a  justice  of  peace, 
At  home  a  poor  scarecrow,  at  London  an  asse, 
If  lowsie  is  Lucy,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it 
Then  Lucy  is  lowsie,  whatever  befall  it. 

He  thinks  himself  groat ; 

Yet  an  asse  in  his  state, 
We  allow  by  his  ears  but  with  asses  to  mate, 
If  Lucy  is  lowsie,  as  some  volke  miscalle  it, 
Then  sing  lowsie  Lucy  whatever  befall  it. 


ST£A  TFORD-  ON- A  VON.  355 

This  flagitious  attack  upon  the  dignity  of  tho 
Imight  so  incensed  him,  that  he  applied  toalawye* 
nt  Warwick  to  put  the  severity  of  the  laws  in  force 
against  the  rhyming  deer-stalker.  Shokspeare  did 

not  v/ait  to  brave  the  united  puissance  of  a  knight 
of  the  shire  and  a  country  attorney,  lie  forth 
with  abandoned  the  pleasant  banks  of  the  Avon 
and  his  paternal  trade;  wandered  away  to  Lou- 
don  ;  became  a  hanger-on  to  the  theatres  ;  then  an 
actor ;  and,  finally,  wrote  for  the  stage  ;  and  thus, 
through  the  persecution  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  Strat 
ford  lost  an  indifferent  wool-comber,  and  the  world 
gained  an  immortal  poet,  lie  retained,  however, 
for  a  long  time,  a  sense  of  the  harsh  treatment  of 
the  Lord  of  Charlecot,  and  revenged  himself  in 
his  writings ;  but  in  the  sportive  way  of  a  good- 
natured  mind.  Sir  Thomas  is  said  to  be  the  orig 
inal  Justice  Shallow,  and  the  satire  is  slyly  fixed 
upon  him  by  the  justice's  armorial  bearings,  wliich, 
like  those  of  the  knight,  had  wlu'te  luces  *  in  tho 
quarterings. 

Various  attempts  have  been  made  by  his  biog 
raphers  to  soften  and  explain  away  this  early 
transgression  of  the  poet ;  but  I  look  upon  it  as 
one  of  those  thoughtless  exploits  natural  to  his 
situation  and  turn  of  mind.  Shakspeare,  when 
young,  had  doubtless  all  the  wildness  and  irregu 
larity  of  an  ardent,  undisciplined,  and  undirected 
genius.  The  poetic  temperament  has  naturally 
something  in  it  of  the  vagabond.  When  left  to 
itself  it  runs  loosely  and  wildly,  and  delights  iu 

•  The  luce  h  a  pike  or  jn^k,  and  abounds  in  the  ATOI 
ubout  Charlecot. 


356  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

everything  eccentric  and  licentious  It  is  often 
a  turn-up  of  a  die.  in  the  gambling  freaks  of  late, 
whether  a  natural  genius  shall  turn  out  a  great 
rogue  or  a  great  poet  ;  and  had  not  Shakspeare'a 
mind  fortunately  taken  a  literary  bias,  he  might 
have  as  daringly  transcended  all  civil,  as  he  has 
all  dramatic  laws. 

I  have  little  doubt  that,  in  early  life,  when  run 
ning,  like  an  unbroken  colt,  about  the  neighbor 
hood'  of  Stratford,  he  was  to  be  found  in  the  com-* 
pany  of  all  kinds  of  odd  anomalous  characters  , 
that  he  associated  with  all  the  madcaps  of  the 
place,  and  was  one  of  those  unlucky  urchins,  at 
mention  of  whom  old  men  shake  their  heads,  and 
predict  that  they  will  one  day  come  to  the  gallows. 
To  him  the  poaching  in  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's  park 
was  doubtless  like  a  foray  to  a  Scottish  knight, 
and  struck  his  eager,  and,  as  yet  untamed,  imagi 
nation,  as  something  delightfully  adventurous.* 

*  A  proof  of  Shakspeare's  random  habits  and  associates  in 
his  youthful  days  mnv  be  found  in  a  traditionary  anecdote, 
picked  up  at  Stratford  by  the  elder  Ireland,  and  mentioned  in 
his  "  Picturesque  Views  on  the  Avon." 

About  seven  miles  from  Stratford  lies  the  thirsty  little 
market-town  of  Bedford,  famous  fcr  its  ale.  Two  societies  of 
the  village  yeomanry  used  to  meet,  under  the  appellation  of 
Ihe  Bedford*  topers,  and  to  challenge  the  lovers  of  good  ale  ot 
the  neighboring  villages  to  a  contest  of  drinking.  Among 
Others,  the  people  of  Stratford  were  called  out  to  prove  the 
jtrength  of  their  heads  ;  and  in  the  number  af  the  champions 
was  Shakspeare,  who,  in  spite  of  the  proverb  that  "  they  who 


Arick  beer  will  think  beer,"  was  as  true  to  his  ale  as  F 
to  his  sack.  The  chivalry  of  Stratford  was  staggered  at  the 
first  onset,  and  sounded  a"  retreat  while  they  had  yet  legs  to 
carry  them  off  the  field.  They  had  scarcely  marched  a  mile 
when,  their  legs  failing  them,"  they  were  forced  to  lie  down 
under  a  crab-tree,  where  they  passed  the  night.  Jt  ia  still 
Handing,  and  goes  by  the  name  of  Shakspeare'  s  tree. 
In  the  morning  his  companion?  awaked  the  bard,  and  pro 


tSTRA  TFOED-  ON- A  VON.  357 

The  old  mansion  of  Charlecot  and  its  surround* 
ing  park  pi  ill  remain  m  the  possession  of  the  Lucy 
family,  and  arc  peculiarly  interesting,  from  being 
connected  with  this  whimsical  but  eventful  cir 
cumstance  in  the  scanty  history  of  the  bard.  Ad 
the  house  stood  but  little  more  than  three  miles' 
distance  from  Stratford,  I  resolved  to  pay  it  a 
pedestrian  visit,  that  I  might  stroll  leisurely  through 
some  of  those  scenes  from  which  Shakspeare 
must  have  derived  his  earliest  ideas  of  rural 
imagery. 

The  country  was  yet  naked  and  leafless  ;  but 
English  scenery  is  always  verdant,  and  the  sud 
den  change  in  the  temperature  of  the  weather  was 
surprising  in  its  quickening  effects  upon  the  land 
scape.  It  was  inspiring  and  animating  to  witneM 
this  first  awakening  of  spring ;  to  feel  its  warm 
breath  stealing  over  the  senses ;  to  see  the  moist 
mellow  earth  beginning  to  put  forth  the  green 
sprout  and  the  tender  blade ;  and  the  trees  and 
shrubs,  in  their  reviving  tints  and  bursting  buds, 
giving  the  promise  of  returning  foliage  and  flower. 
The  cold  snowdrop,  that  little  borderer  on  the 
skirts  of  winter,  was  to  be  seen  with  its  chaste 

nosed  returning  to  Bedford,  hut  he  declined,  saying  he  had 
tad  enough,  having  drank  with 

Piping  IV'nvorth,  Dancing  Mar«ton, 
Haunted  Ililbro',  Hungry  firaflnn, 
iV.idging  Kxl.all,  Papist  \Virks|l ml,  ^ 
Beggarly  llrooin,  and  Drunken  Bedford. 

The  villatres  here  alluded  to,"  says  T retard,  "  still  heai 
ihe  epithets  thus  given  them:  the  people  of  IVc-worth  &?6 
»Ull  famed  for  their  skill  on  the  pipe  and  tatx  f  ;  Hilliorough 
is  now  called  Haunted  Hilborough,  ;  arid  Grafton  is.  famous 
fot  tha  poverty  of  its  soil  * 


358  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

vrbite  blossoms  in  the  small  gardens  before  llifi 
cottages.  The  bleating  of  the  new-dropt  lamba 
was  faintly  heard  from  the  fields.  The  sparrow 
twittered  about  the  thatched  caves  and  budding 
hedges  ;  the  robin  threw  a  livelier  note  into  hi% 
late  querulous  wintry  strain  ;  and  the  lark,  spring 
ing  up  from  the  reeking  bosom  of  the  meadow, 
towered  away  into  the  bright  fleecy  cloud,  pour 
ing  forth  torrents  of  melody.  As  I  watched  the 
little  songster,  mounting  up  higher  and  higher, 
until  his  body  was  a  mere  speck  on  the  white 
bosom  of  the  cloud,  while  the  ear  was  still  filled 
with  his  music,  it  called  to  mind  Shakspeare'a 
exquisite  little  song  in  Cymbeline :  — 

Hark!  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

Artd  I'hcebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs, 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies. 

And  winking  marv-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes; 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  sweet  arise !  4 

Indeed  the  whole  country  about  here  is  poeiio 
ground  :  everything  is  associated  with  the  idea 
of  Shakspeare.  Every  old  cottage  that  I  saw,  1 
fancied  into  some  resort  of  his  boyhood,  where  ho 
had  acquired  his  intimate  knowledge  of  rustic  li& 
juul  manners,  and  heard  those  legendary  tales  and 
wild  superstitions  which  he  has  woven  like  witch 
craft  into  his  dramas.  For  in  his  time,  wo  nre 
told,  it  was  a  popular  amusement  in  winter  even 
ings  "  to  sit  round  the  fire,  and  tell  mejTy  tales 
of  errant  knights,  queens,  lovers,  lords,  ladies. 


STEA  TFOED-  ON- A  VON.  359 

ian  s,  dwarfs,  thieves,  cheaters,  witches,  fairies, 
goblins,  and  friars."  * 

My  route  for  a  part  of  the  way  lay  in  sight  of 
the  Avon,  which  made  a  variety  of  the  most  fancy 
doublings  and  windings  through  a  wide  and  fertile 
valley  ;  sometimes  glittering  from  among  willows, 
which  fringed  its  borders  ;  sometimes  disappear 
ing  among  groves,  or  beneath  green  banks  ;  and 
sometimes  rambling  out  into  full  view,  and  mak 
ing  an  azure  sweep  round  a  slope  of  meadow  land. 
This  beautiful  bosom  of  country  is  called  the  Vale 
of  the  Red  Horse.  A  distant  line  of  undulating 
blue  hills  seems  to  be  its  boundary,  whilst  ail  the 
soft  intervening  landscape  lies  in  a  manner  en 
chained  in  the  silver  links  of  the  Avon. 

After  pursuing  the  road  for  about  three  mileSj 
I  turned  oiF  into  a  footpath,  which  led  along  tir,: 
borders  of  fields,  and  under  hedgerows  to  a  pri 
vate  gate  of  the  park ;  there  was  a  stile,  how 
ever,  for  the  benefit  of  the  pedestrian ;  there  be 
ing  a  public  right  of  way  through  the  grounds. 
I  delight  in  these  hospitable  estates,  in  which  every 
one  has  a  kind  of  property  —  at  least  as  far  as  the 
footpath  is  concerned.  It  in  some  measure  rec 
onciles  a  poor  man  to  his  lot,  and,  what  is  more, 
to  the  better  lot  of  his  neighbor,  thus  to  Jiave 

*  Scot,  in  his  "  Discoverie  of  Witchcraft,"  enumerates  a 
host  of  these  fireside  fancies.  "And  they  have  so  fraid  vi 
with  bull-beggars,  spirits,  witches,  urchins,  elves,  hags,  fairieSi 
satyrs,  pans,  faunes,  syrens,  kit  with  the  can  sticke,  tritons, 
centaurs,  dwarfes,  giantcs,  imps,  calcars,  conjurors,  nymphes, 
changelings,  incubus,  Robin-good-fellow,  the  spoorne,  tha 
inare.  the  man  in  the  oke,  the  hell-waine,  the  fier  drake,  thl 
puckle,  Tom  Thombe,  hobgoblins,  Tom  Tumbler,  boneless, 
md  such  other  bugs,  that  we  were  afraid  of  our  o-ani  shad- 
IWM." 


SCO  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

parks  and  pleasure-grounds  thrown  open  for  his 
recreatioru  He  breathes  the  pure  air  as  freely, 
and  lolls  as  luxuriously  under  the  shade,  as  the 
lord  of  the  soil ;  and  if  he  has  not  the  privilege 
of  calling  all  that  he  sees  his  own,  he  has  not,  at 
the  same  time,  the  trouble  of  paying  for  it,  and 
keeping  it  in  order. 

I  now  found  myself  among  noble  avenues  of 
oaks  and  elms,  whose  vast  size  bespoke  the  growth 
of  centuries.  The  wind  sounded  solemnly  among 
their  branches,  and  the  rooks  cawed  from  their 
hereditary  nests  in  the  tree-tops.  The  eye  ranged 
through  a  long  lessening  vista,  with  nothing  to 
interrupt  the  view  but  a  distant  statue ;  and  a 
vagrant  deer  stalking  like  a  shadow  across  the 
opening. 

There  is  something  about  these  stately  old  ave 
nues  that  has  the  effect  of  Gothic  architecture,  not 
merely  from  the  pretended  similarity  of  form,  but 
from  their  bearing  the  evidence  of  long  duration, 
and  of  having  had  their  origin  in  a  period  of  time 
with  which  we  associate  ideas  of  romantic  gran 
deur.  They  betoken  also  the  long-settled  dignity, 
and  proudly  concentrated  independence  of  an  an 
cient  family ;  and  I  have  heard  a  worthy  but 
aristocratic  old  friend  observe,  when  speaking  of 
the  sumptuous  palaces  of  modern  gentry,  that 
rt  money  could  do  much  with  store  and  mortar, 
but,  thank  Heaven,  there  was  no  such  tiling  as 
suddenly  building  up  an  avenue  of  oaks/ 

It  was  from  wandering  in  early  life  among  thia 
rich  scenery,  and  about  the  romantic  solitudes  of 
the  adjoining  park  of  Fullbroke,  which  then  fanned 


S TEA  TFORD-  ON- A  VON.  361 

a  part  of  the  Lucy  estate,  that  some  of  Shaks- 
peare's  commentators  have  supposed  lie  derived 
his  uioble  forest  meditations  of  Jaques,  and  the  en 
chanting  woodland  pictures  In  "As  You  Like  IL* 
It  is  in  lonely  wanderings  through  such  scenes, 
that  the  mind  drinks  deep  but  quiet  draughts  of 
inspiration,  and  becomes  intensely  sensible  of  the 
beauty  and  majesty  of  nature.  The  imagination 
kindles  into  revery  and  rapture ;  vague  but  ex 
quisite  images  and  ideas  keep  breaking  upon  it ; 
and  we  revel  in  a  mute  and  almost  incommunica 
ble  luxury  of  thought.  It  was  in  some  such  mood, 
and  perhaps  under  one  of  those  very  trees  before 
me,  which  threw  their  broad  shades  over  the 
grassy  banks  and  quivering  waters  of  the  Avon, 
that  the  poet's  fancy  may  have  sallied  forth  into 
that  little  song  winch  breathes  the  very  soul  of  a 
ru^al  voluptuary. 

Under  the  green  wood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  throat 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  note, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither. 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

I  had  now  come  in  sight  of  the  house.  It  is  a 
large  building  of  brick,  with  stone  quoins,  and  is 
m  the  Gothic  style  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  day, 
having  been  built  in  the  lirst  year  of  her  reign. 
The  extej-ior  remains  very  nearly  in  its  original 
Btiite,  arid  may  be  considered  a  fair  specimen  of 
tho  residence  of  a  wealthy  country  gentleman 
of  those  days.  A  great  gateway  opens  from  the 


So' 2  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

park  into  a  kind  of  courtyard  in  front  of  the 
aouse,  ornamented  with  a  grass-plot,  shn.bs,  and 
flower-beds.  The  gateway  is  in  imitation  of  the 
ancient  barl  acan  ;  being  a  kind  of  outpost,  and 
flanked  by  towers  ;  though  evidently  for  mere 
ornament,  instead  of  defence.  The  front  of  the 
ho-.ise  is  completely  in  the  old  style  ;  with  stone- 
shafted  casements,  a  great  bow-window  of  heavy 
stone- work,  and  a  portal  with  armorial  bearings 
over  it,  carved  in  stone.  At  each  corner  of  the 
building  is  an  octagon  tower,  surmounted  by  a 
gilt  ball  and  weathercock. 

The  Avon,  which  winds  through  the  park, 
makes  a  bend  just  at  the  foot  of  a  gently  sloping 
bar.k,  which  sweeps  down  from  the  rear  of  the 
hoi  se.  Large  herds  of  deer  were  feeding  or 
reposing  upon  its  borders ;  and  swans  were  sail 
ing  majestically  upon  its  bosom.  As  I  contem 
plated  the  venerable  old  mansion,  I  called  to 
mind  FalstaiTs  encomium  on  Justice  Shallow's 
abode,  and  the  affected  indifference  and  real  van* 
ity  of  the  latter. 

"  Falstaff.      You  have  a  goodly  dwelling  and  a  rich. 
"  Shallow.    Barren,  barren,  barren;  beggars  all,  beggars  all, 
Bir  John:  —  marry,  good  air." 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  joviality  of  the 
eld  mansion  in  the  days  of  Shakspeare,  it  had  now 
an  air  of  stillness  and  solitude.  The  great  iron 
gateway  that  opened  into  the  courtyard  was 
locked;  there  was  no  show  of  servants  bustling 
about  the  place ;  the  deer  gazed  quietly  at  me  as 
I  passed,  being  no  longer  harried  by  the  moss 
troopers  of  Stratford.  The  only  sign  of  domestic 


STR A  TFOR2J.  ON- A  VON.  36o 

life  thai  I  met  with  was  a  white  cat,  stealing 
with  wary  look  and  stealthy  pace  towards  tho 
stables,  as  if  on  some  nefarious  expedition.  I 
must  not  omit  to  mention  the  carcass  of  a  scoun 
drel  crow  which  I  saw  suspended  against  the 
barn  wall,  as  it  shows  that  the  Lucys  still  inherit 
that  lordly  abhorrence  of  poachers,  and  maintain 
that  rigorous  exercise  of  territorial  power  which 
was  oo  strenuously  manifested  in  the  case  of  the 
bard. 

After  prowling  about  for  some  time,  I  at 
rangth  found  my  way  to  a  lateral  portal,  which 
was  tlit,  every-day  entrance  to  the  mansion.  I 
was  courteously  received  by  a  worthy  old  house 
keeper,  who,  with  the  civility  and  communica 
tiveness  of  her  order,  showed  me  the  interior  iof 
the  house.  The  greater  part  has  undergone  -al 
terations,  and  been  adapted  to  modern  tastes  and 
modes  of  living :  there  is  a  fine  old  oaken  stair 
case  ;  and  the  great  hall,  that  noble  feature  in  an 
ancient  manor-house,  still  retains  much  of  tho 
appearance  it  must  have  had  in  the  clays  of 
Shakspeare.  The  ceiling  is  arched  and  lofty; 
and  at  one  end  is  a  gallery  in  which  stands  an 
organ.  The  weapons  and  trophies  of  the  chase, 
which  formerly  adorned  the  hall  of  a  country 
gentleman,  have  made  way  for  family  portrait?}. 
There  is  a  wide  hospitable  fireplace,  calculated  fot 
an  ample  old-Cishioned  wood  lire,  formerly  tho 
rallying-place  of  winter  festivity.  On  the  oppo« 
Bite  side  of  the  hull  is  the  huge  Gothic  bow-win 
dovv,  with  stone  shafts,  which  looks  out  upon  the 
courtyard.  Here  are  emblazoned  in  stained  glass 


304  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  armorial  bearings  of  the  Lucy  family  for  many 
generations,  some  being  dated  in  1;>.">3.  I  was 
delightod  to  observe  in  the  quartering*  the  three 
icltite  luces,  by  which  the  character  of  Sir  Thomas 
was  first  identified  with  that  of  Justice  Shallow. 
They  are  mentioned  in  the  first  scene  of  tho 
"  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"  where  the  Justice  is 
in  a  rage  with  Falstaff  for  having  ''beaten  his  men, 
killed  his  deer,  and  broken  into  his  lodge."  Tho 
poet  had  no  doubt  the  offences  of  himself  and  his 
comrades  in  mind  at  the  time,  and  we  may  sup 
pose  the  family  pride  and  vindictive  threats  of  the 
puissant  Shallow  to  be  a  caricature  of  the  poni- 
pous  indignation  of  Sir  Thomas. 

"Shallow.  Sir  Hugh,  persuade  me  not;  I  will  mak<*  a 
Star-Chamber  matter  of  it  ;  if  lie  were  twenty  Johi  Fal- 
ttaffs,  lie  shall  not  abuse  Sir  Robert  Shallow,  Esq. 

Sli-udtr.  lr  the  county  of  Gloster,  justice  of  peace,  and 
jornm. 

Shallow.    Ay,  cousin  Slender,  and  ciislalorum. 

Slender.  Ay,  ami  rafalnrtun  too,  ami  a  gentleman  I'orn, 
master  parson  ;  who  writes  himself  Armiyeil)  ill  an}  Dill, 
warrant,  quittance,  or  obligation,  Armiyero. 

Shallow.  Ay,  that  1  do  ;  and  have  dune  any  time  thec* 
three  hundred  years. 

Slender.  All  his  successors  gone  before  him  have  dene  't, 
and  all  his  ancestors  that  come  after  him  may;  they  may  give 
the  dozen  white  luces  in  their  coat.  ****** 

Shallow.     The  council  shall  hear  it;  it  is  a  riot. 

Eratis.  It  is  not  meet  the  council  hear  of  a  riot;  there  is 
no  fear  of  Got  in  a  riot;  the  council,  hear  you,  shall  dewije  to 
hear  the  fear  of  Got,  and  not  to  hoar  a  riot;  take  ycur  v>A- 
meiU*  in  that. 

Sh'illota.  ll:i!  o'  my  life,  if  I  were  ycurg  again,  tho  ava?$ 
should  end  it!  " 

Near  the  window  thus  emblazoned  hung  a  por 
trait  by  Sir  Peter  Lely,  of  one  of  the  Lucy  iiim- 
Uy,  a  g!"eat  beauty  of  the  time  of  Charles  tbt] 
Second :  the  old  housekeeper  shook  her  head  as 


STRA  TFOED-  ON- A  VON.  365 

she  pointed  to  the  picture,  and  informed  me  that 
this  lady  luid  been  sadly  addicted  to  cards,  and 
bud  gambled  away  a  great  portion  of  the  family 
estate,  among  which  was  that  part  of  the  park 
where  Shakspcare  and  his  comrades  had  killed 
the  deer.  The  lands  thus  lost  had  not  been  eik 
finely  regained  by  the  family  even  at  the  present 
day.  It  is  but  justice  to  this  recreant  dame  to 
confess  that  she  had  a  surpassingly  fine  hand  and 
arm. 

The  picture  which  most  attracted  my  attention 
was  a  great  painting  over  the  fireplace,  containing 
likenesses  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  and  his  family, 
who  inhabited  the  hall  in  the  latter  part  of  Shak- 
speare's  lifetime.  I  at  first  thought  that  it  was 
the  vindictive  knight  himself,  but  the  housekeeper 
assured  mo  that  it  was  his  son ;  the  only  likeness 
extant  of  the  former  being  an  effigy  upon  his 
tomb  in  the  church  of  the  neighboring  hamlet  of 
Charlecot.*  The  picture  gives  a  lively  idea  of 

*  Tliis  effigy  is  in  white  marble,  and  represents  the  Knight 
in  complete  armor.  Near  him  lies  theefligy  of  his  wile,  and 
on  her  tomb  is  the  following  inscription;  which,  if  really  com- 
pojed  by  Uer  husband,  places  him  quite  above  the  intellectual 
level  ot  Master  Shallow: 

Here  lyeth  the  Lady  Joyce  Lucy  wife  of  Sir  Thomas  Lncy 
of  Charlecot  in  ye  county  of  Warwick,  Knight,  Daughter  and 
heir  of  Thomas  Acton  of  Sntton  in  ye  county  of  Worcestei 
Esquire  who  departed  out  of  this  wretched  world  to  her  heav 
enly  kingdom  ye  10  day  of  February  in  ve  veare  of  out 
Lord  God  15!)5  and  of  her  age  60  and  three."  All  the  time  of 
her  lyfe  a  true  and  faythful  servant  of  her  good  God,  nerci 
jhtected  cf  any  cryme  or  vice.  In  religion  most  sounde,  it. 
love  to  he.*  husband  most  faythful  and  true.  In  friendship 
mosl  consfmt;  to  what  in  trust  was  committed  unto  her  most 
lecret.  In  wisdom  excelling.  In  governing  of  her  house, 
bringing  up  of  youth  in  ye  fear  of  God  that  did  converse  with 
her  moste  rare  and  singular.  A  great  maintayner  of  hospi 
taiity.  Greatly  esteemed  cf  her  betters j  misliked  of  nor 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


the  costume  and  manners  of  the  tine.  Sii 
Thomas  is  dressed  in  ruff  and  doublet;  white 
shoes  with  rose*  in  them  ;  and  has  a  peaked  yel 
low,  or,  as  Master  Slender  would  say,  "  a  cany- 
colored  beard."  His  lady  is  seated  on  the  oppo 
site  side  of  the  picture,  in  wide  ruff  and  long 
stomacher,  and  the  children  have  a  most  vener 
able  stilfness  and  formality  of  dress.  Hounda 
and  spaniels  are  mingled  in  the  family  group  ;  a 
hawk  is  seated  on  his  perch  in  the  foreground) 
and  one  of  the  children  holds  a  bow  ;  —  all  inti 
mating  the  knight's  skill  in  hunting,  hawking,  and 
archery  —  so  indispensable  to  an  accomplished 
gentleman  in  those  days.* 

I  regretted  to  find  that  the  ancient  furniture 
of  the  hall  had  disappeared  ;  for  I  had  hoped  to 
meet  with  the  stately  elbow-chair  of  carved  oak, 
in  which  the  country  squire  of  former  days  was 

unless  of  the  cnvyous.  When  all  is  spoken  that  can  be  saida 
a  woman  so  garnished  with  virtue  as  not  to  be  bettered  and 
hardly  to  be  equalled  by  any.  As  shee  lived  rtost  virtuously 
BO  shee  died  most  Godly.  Set  dotine  by  him  yt  best  did 
knowe  what  hath  byu  written  to  be  true. 

Thomas  Lucye. 

*  Bishop  Earle,  speaking  of  the  country  gentleman  of  hia 
time,  observes,  "  his  housekeeping  is  seen  much  in  the  diifer- 
eut  families  of  dogs,  and  serving-men  attendant  on  their  ken- 
Dels;  and  the  deepness  of  their  throats  is  the  depth  of  hia 
discourse.  A  hawk  he  esteems  the  true  burden  of  nobility, 
and  is  exceedingly  ambitious  to  seem  delighted  with  tha 
sport,  and  have  his  list  gloved  with  his  jesses."  And  Gilpin. 
in  his  description  of  a  Mr.  Hastings,  remarko,  "  lie  kept  all 
torts  of  hounds  that  run  buck,  fox,  hare,  ot:*>r,  and  badger 
find  bad  hawks  of  all  kinds  both  long  and  shot  winged.  Hit 
great  hall  was  commonly  strewed  with  m&irow  bones,  and 
full  of  hawk,  perches,  hounds,  spaniels,  and  terrier?.  On  a 
bro»d  hearth,  paved  with  brick  U.y  some  of  the  choicest  to-* 
tiers,  hounds,  and  spaniels  " 


STItA  TFORD-  ON- A  VON.  3G 7 

wont  to  sway  the  sceptre  of  empire  over  his  rural 
domains  ;  and  in  which  it  might  be  presumed  the 
redoubted  Sir  Thomas  sat  enthroned  in  awful 
Btate  when  the  recreant  Slmkspeare  was  brought 
before  him.  As  I  like  to  deck  out  pictures  for 
my  own  entertainment,  I  pleased  myself  with 
the  idea  that  this  very  hall  had  been  the  scene 
of  the  unlucky  bard's  examination  on  the  morn 
ing  after  his  captivity  in  the  lodge.  I  fancied  to 
myself  the  rural  potentate,  surrounded  by  his 
body-guard  of  butler,  pages,  and  blue-coated  serv 
ing-men,  with  their  badges ;  while  the  luckless 
culprit  was  brought  in,  forlorn  and  cliopfallca, 
in  the  custody  of  gamekeepers,  huntsmen,  and 
whippers-in,  and  followed  by  a  rabble  rout  of 
country  clowns.  I  fancied  bright  faces  of  curious 
housemaids  peeping  from  the  half-opened  doors  ; 
while  from  the  gallery  the  fair  daughters  of  the 
knight  leaned  gracefully  forward,  eying  the  youth 
ful  prisoner  with  that  pity  "  that  dwells  in  wo 
manhood."  —  Who  would  have  thought  that  this 
poor  varlet,  thus  trembling  before  the  brief  au 
thority  of  a  country  squire,  and  the  sport  of  rus 
tic  boors,  was  soon  to  become  the  delight  of 
princes,  the  theme  of  all  tongues  and  ages,  the 
dictator  to  the  human  mind,  and  was  to  confer 
immortality  on  his  oppressor  by  a  caricature  and 
ft  lampoon  ! 

I  was  now  invited  by  the  butler  to  walk  into 
the  garden,  and  I  felt  inclined  to  visit  the  orchard 
and  arbor  where  the  justice  treated  Sir  Jolin 
Falstaff  and  Cousin  Silence  "  to  a  last  rear'8 
pippin  of  hi*  own  grafting,  with,  a  dish  ol  cara 


3G8  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ways ;  "  but  I  had  already  spent  so  much  of  the 
day  in  my  ramblings  that  I  was  obliged  to  give 
up  any  further  investigations.  When  about  to 
take  my  leave  I  was  gratified  by  the  civil  en 
treaties  of  the  housekeeper  and  butler,  that  I 
would  take  some  refreshment :  an  instance  of 
good  old  hospitality  which,  I  grieve  to  say,  we  cas 
tle-hunters  seldom  meet  with  in  modern  days.  I 
make  no  doubt  it  is  a  virtue  which  the  present 
representative  of  the  Lucys  inherits  from  his  an 
cestors  ;  for  Shakspeare,  even  in  his  caricature, 
makes  Justice  Shallow  importunate  in  this  re 
spect,  as  witness  his  pressing  instances  to  Falstaff 

"  By  cock  and  pye,  sir,  you  shall  not  away  to-night  *  *  * 
I  will"  not  excuse  you;  you  shall  not  be  excused;  excuses 
shall  not  be  admitted;  there  is  no  excuse  shall  serve;  you 
shall  not  be  excused  *  *  *.  Some  pigeons,  Davy;  a  couple 
of  short-legged  hens;  a  joint  of  mutton;  and  any  pretty  little 
tiny  kickshaws,  tell  William  Cook." 

I  now  bade  a  reluctant  farewell  to  the  old  halL 
My  mind  had  become  so  completely  possessed  by 
the  imaginary  scenes  and  characters  connected 
with  it,  that  I  seemed  to  be  actually  living  among 
them.  Everything  brought  them  as  it  were  before 
my  eyes  ;  and  as  the  door  of  the  dining-room 
Dpcned,  I  almost  expected  to  hear  the  feeble  voico 
of  Master  Silence  quavering  forth  his  favorite 
ditty:  — 

"  'T  is  merry  in  hall,  when  beards  wag  all, 
And  welcome  merry  shrove-tide!  " 

On  returning  to  my  inn,  I  could  not  but  reflect 
tti  the  singular  gift  of  the  poet ;  to  be  able  thus  to 
Dpread  the  magic  of  his  mind  over  the  very  face 
of  nature  ;  to  give  to  things  and  places  a  charm 


STRA  TFOR.D-  ON-A  VON.  369 

fr.ti  character  not  tlieir  own,  and  to  turn  thi8 
*  svorking-day  world "  into  a  perfect  fairy  land. 
H.;  is  indeed  the  true  enchanter,  whose  spell  oper 
ated,  not  upon  the  senses,  but  upon  the  imagina* 
tiou  and  the  heart.  Under  the  wizard  influence 
of  ohakspeare  I  had  been  walking  all  day  in  a 
complete  delusion.  I  had  surveyed  the  landscape 
through  the  prism  of  poetry,  which  tinged  every 
object  with  the  hues  of  the  rainbow.  I  had  been 
surrounded  with  fancied  beings  ;  with  mere  airy 
nothings,  conjured  up  by  poetic  power;  yet  which, 
to  me,  had  all  the  charm  of  reality.  I  had  heard 
Jaques  soliloquize  beneath  his  oak:  had  beheld 
the  fair  Rosalind  and  her  companion  adventuring 
through  the  woodlands  ;  and,  above  all,  had  been 
once  more  present  in  spirit  with  fat  Jack  Falstaff 
and  his  contemporaries,  from  the  august  Justice 
Shallow,  down  to  the  gentle  Master  Slender  and 
the  sweet  Anne  Page.  Ten  thousand  honors  and 
blessings  on  the  bard  who  has  thus  gilded  the  dull 
realities  of  life  with  innocent  illusions  ;  who  has 
spread  exquisite  and  unbought  pleasures  in  my 
checkered  path;  and  beguiled  my  spirit  in  many 
a  lonely  hour,  with  all  thb  cordial  and  cheerful 
sympathies  of  social  life  ! 

As  I  crossed  the  bridge  over  the  Avon  OR  my 
return,  I  paused  to  contemplate  the  distant  church 
in  which  the  poet  lies  buried,  and  could  not  but 
exult  in  the  malediction,  which  has  kept  his  ashes 
Undisturbed  in  its  quiet  and  hallowed  vaults. 
What  honor  could  his  name  have  derived  from 
being  iringled  in  dusty  companionship  with  the 
fipitaphsi  and  escutcheons  and  venal  eulogimns  of 
24 


370  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

a  titled  multitude  ?  What  would  a  crowded  cor 
ner  in  Westminster  Abbey  have  been,  compared 
with  this  reverend  pile,  which  seems  to  stand  iq 
beautiful  loneliness  as  his  sole  mausoleum !  Tht\ 
solicitude  about  the  grave  may  be  but  the  off 
spring  of  an  over- wrought  sensibility;  but  human 
nature  is  made  up  of  foibles  and  prejudices  ;  and 
its  best  and  tenderest  affections  are  mingled  with 
these  factitious  feelings.  He  who  has  sought  re 
nown  about  the  world,  and  has  reaped  a  full  har 
vest  of  worldly  favor,  will  find,  after  all,  that 
there  is  no  love,  no  admiration,  no  applause,  so 
sweet  to  the  soul  as  that  which  springs  up  in  his 
native  place.  It  is  there  that  he  seeks  to  be 
gathered  in  peace  and  honor  among  his  kindred 
and  his  early  friends.  And  when  the  weary 
heart  and  failing  head  begin  to  warn  him  that  the 
evening  of  life  is  drawing  on,  he  turns  as  fondly 
as  does  the  infant  to  the  mother's  arms,  to  sink  to 
sleep  in  the  bosom  of  the  scene  of  his  childhood. 

How  would  it  have  cheered  the  spirit  of  the 
youthful  bard  when,  wandering  forth  in  disgrace 
upon  a  doubtful  world,  he  cast  back  a  heavy  look 
upon  his  paternal  home,  could  he  have  foreseen 
that,  before  many  years,  he  should  return  to  it 
covered  with  renown ;  that  his  name  should  be 
come  the  boast  and  glory  of  his  native  places 
that  his  ashes  should  be  religiously  guarded  aa 
its  most  precious  treasure  ;  and  that  its  lessening 
•Bpire,  on  which  his  eyes  were  fixed  in  tearful  con 
templation,  should  one  day  become  the  beacon, 
towering  amidst  the  gentle  landscape,  to  guicto 
the  literary  pilgrim  of  every  ration  to  his  tomb  I 


TEAITS   OF   INDIAN   CHARACTER. 


"I  appeal  to  any  white  man  if  ever  he  entered  Logan*! 
cabin  hungry,  and  he  gave  him  not  to  eat;  if  ever  he  cama 
cold  aud  iiuked,  and  he  clothed  him  not." 

Sl'KECH  OF  AN  INDIAN  ClIIEF.       > 

HERE  is  something  in  tho  character  and 
habits  of  the.  .North  American  savage, 
taken  in  connection  with  the  scenery 
over  which  he  is  accustomed  to  range,  its  vast 
lakes,  boundless  forests,  majestic  rivers,  and  track 
less  plains,  that  is,  to  my  mind,  wonderfully  strik 
ing  and  sublime.  lie  is  lormed  lor  the  wilderness, 
as  the  Arab  is  for  the  desert.  His  nature  is  stern, 
simple,  and  enduring  ;  fitted  to  grapple  with  diili- 
culties,  and  to  support  privations.  There  seems 
but  little  soil  in  his  heart  for  the  support  of  tho 
kindly  virtues  ;  and  yet,  if  we  would  but  take  tho 
trouble  to  penetrate  through  that  proud  stoicism 
and  hiibitual  taciturnity,  which  lock  up  }iis  char- 
erter  from  casual  observation,  we  should  lind  him 
Uiikful  to  his  fellow-man  of  civilized  life  by  more 
of  those  sympathies  and  aifections  that  are  usually 
ascribed  to  him. 

It  has  been  the  lot  of  the  unfortunate  aborigines 
of  America,  In  ihe  early  periods  of  colonization, 
k)  be  doubly  wronged  by  the  white  men. 

371 


372  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


l>ecn  dispossessed  of  their  hereditary  posses* 
Bions  by  mercenary  and  frequently  wanton  war* 
fare  ;  and  their  characters  have  been  traduced  by 
bigoted  and  interested  writers.  The  coloni^  often 
treated  tlieni  like  beasts  of  the  forest.  i_and..  the 
author  has  endeavored  to  justify  him  in  hi*  out 
rages.  The  former  found  it  easier  to  extermlnati/ 
than  to  civilize  ;  the  latter,  to  vilify  than  to  dis 
criminate.  The  appellations  of  savage  and  pagan 
were  deemed  sullicient  to  sanction  the  hostilities 
cf  both  ;  and  thus  the  poor  wanderers  of  the 
forest  were  persecuted  and  defamed,  not  because 
they  were  guilty,  but  because  .they  were  igno 
rant. 

The  rights  of  the  savage  have  seldom  been 
properly  appreciated  or  respected  by  the  white 
man.  In  peace  he  has  too  often  been  the  dupe 
of  artful  trallic  ;  in  war  he  has  been  regarded  as 
a  ferocious  animal,  whose  life  or  death  was  a 
question  of  mere  precaution  and  convenience. 
Man  is  cruelly  wasteful  of  life  when  his  own 
Bafety  is  endangered,  and  he  is  sheltered  by  im 
punity  ;  and  little  mercy  is  to  be  expected  from 
liim  when  he  feels  the  sting  of  the  reptile  and 
is  conscious  of  the  power  to  destroy. 

The  same  prejudices,  which  were  indulged  thus 
early,  exist  in  common  circulation  at  the  present 
day.  Certain  learned  societies  have,  it  is  true, 
with  laudable  diligence,  endeavored  to  investigate 
and  record  the  real  characters  and  manners  of 
the  Indian  tribes  ;  the  American  government,  too, 
has  wisely  and  humanely  exerted  itself  to  iucul- 
cata  a  friendly  and  forbearing  spirit  towards  them, 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER.      373 

and  to  protect  thfcm  from  fraud  and  injustice.* 
The  current  opinion  of  the  Indian  character,  how* 
ever,  Is  too  apt  to  be  formed  from  llie  miserabU 
hordes  which  infest  Jhc  frontiers,  and  hang  on 
tin-  skirts  of  the  settlements.  These  are  too  com 
monly  composed  jf  degenerate  beings,  corrupted 
and  enfeebled  by  the  vices  of  society,  without  be 
ing  benefited  by  its  civilization.  That  proud 
independence,  wliich  formed  the  main  pillar  of 
savage  virtue,  has  been  shaken  down,  and  the 
whole  moral  fabric  lies  in  ruins.  Their  spirits 
are  humiliated  and  debased  by  a  sense  of  inferior 
ity,  and  their  native  courage  cowed  and  daunted 
by  the  superior  knowledge  and  power  of  their 
enlightened  neighbors.  Society  has  advanced 
upon  them  like  one  of  those  withering  ail's  that 
will  sometimes  breed  desolation  over  a  whole  re 
gion  of  fertility.  It  has  enervated  their  strength, 
multiplied  their  diseases,  and  superinduced  upon 
their  original  barbarity  the  low  vices  of  artificial 
life.  It  has  given  them  a  thousand  superfluous 
wants,  whilst  it  has  diminished  their  means  of 
mere  existence.  It  has  driven  before  it  the  ani 
mals  of  the  chase,  who  fly  from  the  sound  of  the 
axe  and  the  smoke  of  the  settlement,  and  seek 
refuge  in  the  depths  of  remoter  forests  and  yet 
untrodden  wilds.  Thus  do  we  too  often  find  tho 

*  The  American  government  has  been  indefatigable  'DL  its 
WM'tions  to  ameliorate  the  situation  of  the  Indians,  and  to  in* 
tioduce  among  them  the  arts  of  civilization,  and  civil  aud  re 
ligious  knowledge.  To  p-otect  them  from  the  frauds  of  th« 
White  traders,  no  purchase  of  land  from  them  by  individual! 
Is  permitted;  nor  is  any  person  allowed  to  receive  lands  from 
them  as  a  present,  without  the  express  sanction  ol  govern 
ment.  Vhese  irecautions  are  strictly  enforced. 


374  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Indians  on  our  frontiers  to  be  the  mere  wrecks 
and  remnants  of  once  powerful  tribes,  who  have 
lingered  in  the  vicinity  of  the  settlements,  and 
sunk  into  precarious  and  vagabond  existence. 
Poverty,  repining,  and  hopeless  poverty,  a  canker 
of  the  mind  unknown  in  savage  life,  corrodes  their 
spirits,  and  blights  every  free  and  noble  quality 
of  their  natures.  They  become  drunken,  indo 
lent,  feeble,  thievish,  and  pusillanimous.  They 
loiter  like  vagrants  about  the  settlements,  among 
spacious  dwellings  replete  with  elaborate  comforts, 
which  only  render  them  sensible  of  the  compaia- 
tive  wretchedness  of  their  own  condition.  Lux 
ury  spreads  its  ample  board  before  their  eyes; 
but  they  are  excluded  from  the  banquet.  Plenty 
revels  over  the  fields ;  but  they  are  starving  in  the 
midst  of  its  abundance  :  the  whole  wilderness  has 
blossomed  into  a  garden ;  but  they  feel  as  reptiles 
that  infest  it. 

How  different  was  their  state  while  yet  the 
undisputed  lords  of  the  soil !  Their  wants  were 
fejx^and  the  means  of  gratification  within  their 
reach.  They  saw  every  one  around  them  shar 
ing  the  same  lot,  enduring  the  same  hardships, 
feeding  on  the  same  aliments,  arrayed  in  the 
same  rude  garments.  No  i*oof  then  rose,  but 
was  open  to  the  homeless  stranger;  no  smcke 
curled  among  the  trees,  but  he  was  welcome  to  sit 
down  by  its  fire,  and  join  the  hunter  in  his  re 
past.  '*  For,"  says  an  old  historian  of  New 
England,  "their  life  is  so  void  of  care,  and  they 
are  so  loving  also,  that  they  make  use  of  those 
things  they  enjoy  as  common  goods,  and  are 

*  /  -,  > 

,.  A±J     .  ,      *      //-0^t-»^.         *.-t/lS:'/  7. 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN   CHARACTER.       375 

therein  so  compassionate,  that  rather  than  on« 
should  starve  through  want,  they  would  starve 
all ;  thus  they  pass  their  time  merrily,  not  regard 
fng  our  pomp,  but  are  better  content  with  theil 
own,  which  some  men  esteem  so  meanly  of." 
Such  were  the  Indians,  whilst  in  the  pride  and 
energy  of  their  primitive  natures  :  they  resembled 
those  wild  plants,  which  thrive  best  in  the  shades 
of  the  forest,  but  shrink  from  the  hand  of  cultiva 
tion,  and  perish  beneath  the  influence  of  the  sun. 

In  discussing  the  savage  character,  writers 
have  been  too  prone  to  indulge  in  vulgar  preju 
dice  and  passionate  exaggeration,  instead  of  the 
candid  temper  of  true  philosophy.  They  have 
not  sufficiently  considered  the  peculiar  circum 
stances  in  which  the  Indians  have  been  placed, 
and  the  peculiar  principles  under  which  they  have 
been  educated.  No  being  acts  more  rigidly  from  / 
nile  than  the  Indian.  His  whole  conduct  is  reg.- '/ 
ulated  according  to  some  general  maxims  early 
implanted  in  his  mind.  The  moral  laws  that 
govern  him  are,  to  be  sure,  but  few ;  but  then  he 
conforms  to  them  all;  — the  white  man  abounds 
in  laws  of  religion,  morals,  and  manners,  but  how 
many  does  he  violate  ? 

A  frequent  ground  of  accusation  against  the 
Indians  is  their  disregard  of  treaties,  and  the 
treachery  ana  wantonness  with  which,  in  time  of 
apparent  peace,  they  will  suddenly  ily  to  hostili 
ties.  The  intercourse  of  the  <vhite  men  with  the 
Indians,  however,  is  too  apt  to  be  cold,  distrust 
ful,  oppressive,  and  insulting.  They  seldom  treat 
them  with  that  confidence  and  frankness  which  are 


376  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Indispensable  to  real  friendship ;  nor  \&  sufficient 
caution  observed  not  to  offend  against  those  feel« 
ings  of  pride  or  siipergtitionj  which  often  prompt 
the  Indian  to  hostility  quicker  than  mere  consid 
erations  of  interest.  The  solitary  savage  feela 
tiU'iitly,  but  acutely.  His  sensibilities  are  not 
diffused  over  so  wide  a  surface  as  those  of  tha 
white  man  ;  but  they  run  in  steadier  and  deeper 
channels.  His  pride,  his  affections,  his  supersti 
tions,  are  all  directed  towards  fewer  objects;  but 
the  wounds  inflicted  on  them  are  pixtppxtionabty 
severe,  and  furnish  motives  of  hostility  which  wo 
cannot  sufficiently  appreciate.  Where  a  com 
munity  is  also  limited  in  number,  and  forms  one 
great  patriarchal  family,  as  in  an  Indian  tribe, 
the  injury  of  an.  individual  is  the  injury  of  the 
whole ;  and  the  sentiment  of  vengeance  is  almost 
instantaneously  diffused.  One  council -fire  is 
sufficient  for  the  discussion  and  arrangement  of  a 
plan  of  hostilities.  Here  all  the  fighting -men 
and  sages  assemble.  Eloquence  and  superstition 
combine  to  inflame  the  minds  of  the  warriors. 
The  orator  awakens  their  martial  ardor,  and  they 
are  wrought  up  to  a  kind  of  religious  desper 
ation,  by  the  visions  of  the  prophet  and  the 
dreamer. 

An  instance  of  one  of  those  sudden  exaspera* 
tions,  arising  from  a  motive  peculiar  to  the  Indian 
character,  is  extant  in  an  old  record  of  the  early 
settlement  of  Massachusetts.  The  planters  of 
Plymouth  had  defaced  the  monuments  of  tho 
dead  at  Passonagessit,  and  had  plundered  tho 
grave  of  tho  Sachem's  mothor  of  some  skins 


with  wliich  it  had  been  decorated.  The.  Indians 
arc  remarkable  for  the  reverence  which  they  en 
Certain  tor  the  sepulchres  of  their  kindred.  Tribef 
thafliave  passed  generations  exiled  from  th<} 
abodes  of  their  ancestors,  when  by  chance  they 
lave  been  travelling  in  the  vicinity,  have  been 
known  to  turn  aside  from  the  highway,  and, 
guided  by  wonderfully  accurate  tradition,  have 
crossed  the  country  for  miles  to  some  tumulus, 
buried  perhaps  in  woods,  where  the  bones  of 
their  tribe  were  anciently  deposited ;  and  there 
have  passed  hours  in  silent  meditation.  Influenced 
by  this  sublime  and  holy  feeling,  the  Sachem, 
whose  mother's  tomb  had  been  violated,  gathered 
his  men  together,  and  addressed  them  in  the  fol 
lowing  beautifully  simple  and  pathetic  harangue ; 
a  curious  specimen  of  Indian  eloquence,  and  an 
affecting  instance  of  filial  piety  in  a  savage. 

"  When  last  the  glorious  light  of  all  the  sky 
was  underneath  this  globe,  and  birds  grew  silentj 
I  began  to  settle,  as  my  custom  is,  to  take  repose 
Before  mine  eyes  were  fast  closed,  methought  I 
saw  a  vision,  at  which  my  spirit  was  much  troub 
led  ;  and  trembling  at  that  doleful  sight,  a  spirit 
cried  aloud,  *  Behold,  my  son,  whom  I  have  cher 
ished,  see  the  breasts  that  gave  thce  puck,  the 
hands  that  lapped  thee  warm,  and  fed  thee  oft. 
Canst  thou  forget  to  take  revenge  of  those  wild 
people  who  have  defaced  my  monument  in  A  de 
spiteful  manner,  disdaining  our  antiquities  and 
honorable  customs  ?  See,  now,  the  Sachem's  gravo 
ties  like  the  common  people,  defaced  by  an  igno- 
pie  race.  Thy  mother  doth  compLiin,  and  im 


378  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

piores  thy  aid  against  this  thievish  people,  whc 
have  newly  intruded  on  our  hind.  If  this  be  suf* 
feral,  I  shall  not  rest  quiet  in  my  everlasting  hab 
itation.'  This  said,  the  spirit  vanished,  and  I,  all 
in  a  sweat,  not  able  scarce  to  speak,  began  to  get 
some  strength,  and  recollect  nrj  spirits  that  were 
fletl,  and  determined  to  demand  your  counsel  and 
assistance." 

I  have  adduced  this  anecdote  at  some  length, 
as  it  tends  to  show  how  these  sudden  acts  of 
hostility,  which  have  been  attributed  to  caprice 
and  perfidy,  .nay  often  arise  from  deep  and  gen 
erous  motives,  which  our  inattention  to  Indian 
character  and  customs  prevents  our  properly  ap 
preciating. 

Another  ground  of  violent  outcry  against  the 
Indians  is  their  barbarity  to  the  vanquished.  This 
had  its  origin  partly  in  policy  and  partly  in  super 
stition.  The  tribes,  though  sometimes  called  na 
tions,  w^ere  never  so  formidable  in  their  numbers, 
but  that  the  loss  of  several  warriors  was  sensibly 
felt;  this  was  particularly  the  case  when  they 
bad  been  frequently  engaged  in  warfare ;  and 
many  an  instance  occurs  in  Indian  history,  where 
a  tribe,  that  had  long  been  formidable  to  its 
neighbors,  has  been  broken  up  and  driven  away, 
by  the  capture  and  massacre  of  its  principal  fight 
ing-men.  There  was  a  strong  _temptation,JJi©Fe- 
fore.  to  the  victor  to  be. merciless  j  no'  so  much  to 
gratify  any  cruel  revenge,  as  to  provide  far-Jkture 
security.  The  Indians  had  also  the  superstition? 
belief,  frequent  among  barbarous  nations,  utui 
prevalent  also  among  the  ancients,  that  the 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER.       379 

nf  their  friends  who  had  fallen  in  battle  were 
Ropthed  by  the  blood  of  the  captives.  The  pris 
oners,  however,  who  are  not  thus  sacrificed,  arc 
adopted  into  their  families  in  the  place  of  the 
slain,  and  are  treated  with  the  confidence  and 
affection  of  relatives  and  friends ;  nay,  so  hos 
pitable  and  tender  is  their  entertainment,  that 
when  the  alternative  is  offered  them,  they  wil) 
often  prefer  to  remain  with  their  adopted  breth 
ren,  rather  than  return  to  the  home  and  the 
friends  of  their  youth. 

The  cruelty  of  the  Indians  towards  their  pris 
oners  has  been  heightened  since  the  colonization 
of  the  whites.  What  was  formerly  a  compliance 
with  policy  and  superstition,  has  been  exasperated 
ipto  a  gratification  of  vengeance.  They  cannot 
but  be  sensible  that  the  white  men  are  the  usurp 
ers  of  their  ancient  dominion,  the  cause  of  their 
degradation,  and  the  gradual  destroyers  of  their 
race.  They  go  forth  to  battle,  smarting  with 
injuries  and  indignities  which  they  have  individ 
ually  suffered,  and  they  are  driven  to  madness  and 
despair  by  the  wide-spreading  desolation  and  the 
overwhelming  ruin  of  European  warfare.  The 
whites  have  too  frequently  set  them  an  example 
of  violence,  by  burning  then*  villages,  and  laying 
waste  their  slender  means  of  subsistence ;  and 
yet  they  wonder  that  savages  do  not  show  mod 
eration  and  magnanimity  towards  those  who  hava 
left  them  nothing  but  mere  existence  and  wretch* 
Bdness. 

We  stigmatize  the  Indians,  also,  as  cowardly 
and  treacherous,  because  they  use  strati  vgem  in 


380  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

warfare,  in  preference  to  open  force ;  but  in  thia 
they  are  fully  justified  by  their  rude  code  of  honor. 
They  tiro  early  taught  that  stratagem  is  praiso 
worthy ;  the~bravcst  warrior  thinks  It  no  disgrace 
to  lurk  in  silence,  and  take  every  advantage  of 
bis  foe ;  he  triumphs  in  the  superior  craft  autf 
sagacity  by  which  he  has  been  enabled  to  surprise 
and  destroy  an  enemy.  Indeed,  man  is  naturally 
more  prone  to  subtlety  than  open  valor,  owing  to 
his  physical  weakness  in  comparison  with  other 
animals.  They  are  endowed  with  natural  weap 
ons  of  defence  :  with  horns,  with  tusks,  with  hoofs, 
and  talons  ;  but  man  has  to  depend  -on  his  supe 
rior  sagacity.  In  all  his  encounters  with  these, 
his  proper  enemies,  he  resorts  to  stratagem ;  and 
when  he  perversely  turns  his  hostility  against  his 
felbw-man,  he  at  first  continues  the  same  subtle 
mode  of  warfare. 

The  natural  principle  of  war  is  to  do  the  most 
harm  to  our  enemy  with  the  least  harm  to  our 
selves  ;  and  this  of  course  is  to  be  effected  by  strat 
agem.  That  chivalrous  courage  which  induces 
us  to  despise  the  suggestions  of  prudence,  and  t  j 
rush  in  the  face  of  certain  danger,  is  the  offspring 
of  society,  and  produced  by  education.  It  is  hon 
orable,  because  it  is  in  fact  the  triumph  of  lofty 
sentiment  over  an  instinctive  repugnance  to  pain, 
and  over  those  yearnings  after  personal  ease  and 
security,  which  society  has  condemned  as  ignoble, 
It  is  kept  alive  by  pride  and  the  fear  of  shame , 
and  thus  the  dread  of  real  evil  is  overcome  by 
the  superior  dread  of  an  evil  which  exists  but  iu 
Ihe  imagination.  It  has  been  cherished  and 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER.      381 

Simulated  also  by  various  means.  It  has  been 
the  theme  of  spirit-stirring  song  and  chivalrous 
story.  The  poet  and  minstrel  have  delighted  to 
Bhcd  round.it  the  splendors  of  fiction;  and  even 
the  historian  has  forgotten  the  sober  gravity  cf 
narration,  and  broken  forth  into  enthusiasm  and 
rhapsody  in  its  praise.  Triumphs  and  gorgeous 
pageants  have  been  its  reward  ;  monuments,  on 
which  art  has  exhausted  its  skill,  and  opulence 
its  treasures,  have  been  erected  to  perpetuate  a 
nation's  gratitude  and  admiration.  Thus  artifi 
cially  excited,  courage  has  risen  to  an  extraor 
dinary  and  factitious  degree  of  heroism ;  and  ar 
rayed  in  all  the  glorious  "  pomp  and  circumstance 
of  war,"  this  turbulent  quality  has  even  been  able 
to  eclipse  many  of  those  quiet  but  invaluable  vir 
tues,  which  silently  ennoble  the  human  character, 
and  swell  the  tide  of  human  happiness. 

But  if  courage  intrinsically  consists  in  the  de 
fiance  of  danger  and  pain,  the  life  of  the  Indian  is 
a  continual  exhibition  of  it.  lie  lives  in  a  state 
of  perpetual  hostility  and  risk.  Peril  atldrtttlvef.- 
ture  arc  congenial  to  his  nature;  or  rather  seem 
necessary  to  arouse  his  faculties  and  to  give  an 
interest  to  his  existence.  Surrounded  by  hostile 
Iribes,  whose  mode  of  warfare  is  by  ambush  and 
surprisal,  he  is  always  prepared  for  fight,  and  lives 
with  his  weapons  in  his  hands.  As  the  ship 
careers  in  fearful  singleness  through,  the  solitudes 
if  ocean,  —  as  the  bird  mingles  among  clouds 
*ttd  storms,  and  wings  its  way,  a  mere  speck, 
acres?  the  pathless  fields  of  air,  —  so  the  Indian 
nolds  his  course,  silent,  solitary,  but  uadauntedf 


382  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

through  the  boundless  bosom  of  the  wilderness, 
His  expeditions  may  vie  in  distance  and  daugei 
with  the  pilgrimage  of  the  devotee,  or  the  crusado 
of  the  knight-errant.  lie  traverses  vast  forests, 
exposed  to  the  hazards  of  lonely  sickness,  of  lark 
ing  enemies,  and  pining  famine.  Stormy  lakes, 
those  great  inland  seas,  are  no  obstacles  to  his  wan 
derings  ;  in  his  light  canoe  of  bark  he  sports,  like 
a  feather,  on  their  waves,  and  darts,  with  the 
swiftness  of  an  arrow,  down  the  roaring  rapids  of 
the  rivers.  His  very  subsistence  is  snatched  from 
the  midst  of  toil  and  peril.  lie  gains  his  food  by 
the  hardships  and  dangers  of  the  chase  ;  he  wraps 
himself  in  the  spoils  of  the  bear,  the  panther,  and 
the  buffalo,  and  sleeps  among  the  thunders  of  the 
cataract. 

No  hero  of  ancient  or  modern  days  can  surpass 
the  Indian  in  his  lofty  contcinn.t. ..pf_dej.i_thj.  and  the 
fortitude  with  which  he  sustains  its  crudest  inflic 
tion.  Indeed  we  here  behold  him  rising  superior 
to  the  white  man,  in  consequence  of  his  peculiar 
education.  The  latter  rushes  to  glorious  death  at 
the  cannon's  mouth ;  the  former  calmly  contem 
plates  its  approach,  and  triumphantly  endures  it, 
amidst  the  varied  torments  of  surrounding  fotsS 
and  the  protracted  agonies  of  fire,  lie  even 
takes  a  pride  in  taunting  his  persecutors,  and  [  re 
voking  their  ingenuity  of  torture  ;  and  as  thf! 
devouring  (lames  prey  on  his  very  vital-*,  and  the 
flesh  shrinks  from  the  sinews,  he  raises  his  last 
song  of  triumph,  breathing  the  defiance  of  an  un- 
conquered  heart,  and  invoking  the  spirits  of  hii 
fathers  to  witness  that  he  dies  without  a  groan 


TRAITS   OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER.      383 

Notwithstanding  the  obloquy  with  which  tha 
early  historians  have  overshadowed  the  charac 
ters  of  the  unfortunate  natives,  some  bright 
gleams  occasionally  break  through,  which  throw 
a  degree  of  melancholy  lustre  on  their  memories. 
Facts  are  occasionally  to  be  met  with  in  the  rudo 
annals  of  the  eastern  provinces,  which,  though 
recorded  with  the  coloring  of  prejudice  and  big 
otry,  yet  speak  for  themselves,  and  will  be  dwelt 
on  with  applause  and  sympathy,  when  prejudice 
shall  have  passed  away. 

In  one  of  the  homely  narratives  of  the  Indian 
wars  in  New  England.,  there  is  a  touching  account 
of  the  desolation  carried  into  the  tribe  of  the 
Pequod  Indians.  Humanity  shrinks  from  the 
cold-blooded  detail  of  indiscriminate  butchery. 
In  one  place  we  read  of  the  surprisal  of  an  Indian 
fort  in  the  night,  when  the  wigwams  were  wrap 
ped  in  flames,  and  the  miserable  inhabitants  shot 
down  and  slain  in  attempting  to  escape,  "  all  being 
despatched  and  ended  in  the  course  of  an  hour." 
After  a  series  of  similar  transactions,  "  our  sol 
diers,"  as  the  historian  piously  observes,  "  being 
resolved  by  God's  assistance  to  make  a  final 
destruction  of  them,"  the  unhappy  savages  being 
hunted  from  their  homes  and  fortresses,  and  pur 
sued  with  fire  and  sword,  a  scanty,  but  gallant 
band,  the  sad  remnant  of  the  Pequod  warriors, 
with  their  wives  and  children,  took  refuge  in  a 
swsmp. 

Burning  with  indignation,  and  rendered  sullen 
by  despair,  with  hearts  bursting  with  grief  at  the 
3estniction  of  their  tribe-  and  spirits  {railed  and 


384  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

sore  at  the  fancied  ignominy  of  their  defeat, 
refused  to  ask  their  lives  at  the  hands  of  an  in- 
Bulling  foe,  and  preferred  death  to  submission. 

As  the  night  drew  on  they  were  surrounded 
in  their  dismal  retreat,  so  as  to  render  escape 
impracticable.  Thus  situated,  their  enemy  "  plied 
them  with  shot  all  the  time,  by  which  means 
many  were  killed  and  buried  in  the  mire."  In 
the  darkness  and  fog  that  preceded  the  dawn  of 
day,  some  few  broke  through  the  besiegers  and 
escaped  into  the  woods :  "  the  rest  were  left  to 
the  conquerors,  of  which  many  were  killed  in  the 
swamp,  like  su-len  dogs  who  would  rather,  in 
their  self-willedness  and  madness,  sit  still  and  be 
shot  through,  or  cut  to  pieces,"  than  implore  for 
mercy.  When  the  day  broke  upon  this  handful 
of  forlorn  but  dauntless  spirits,  the  soldiers,  we 
are  told,  entering  the  swamp,  "  saw  several  heaps 
of  them  sitting  close  together,  upon  whom  they 
discharged  their  pieces,  laden  with  ten  or  twelve 
pistol-bullets  at  a  time,  putting  the  muzzles  of 
the  pieces  under  the  boughs,  within  a  few  yards 
of  them ;  so  as,  besides  those  that  were  found 
dead,  many  more  were  killed  and  sunk  into  the 
mire,  and  never  were  minded  more  by  friend  or 
foe." 

Can  any  one  read  this  plain  unvarnished  tale, 
•without  admiring  the  stern  resolution,  the  un 
bending  pride,  the  loftiness  of  spirit,  that  seemed 
lo  nerve  the  hearts  of  these  self-taught  heroes, 
and  to  raise  them  above  the  instinctive  feelings  of 
human  nature  ?  When  the  Gauls  laid  waste  the 
city  of  Home,  they  found  the  senators  clothed  in 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN    CHARACTER.       885 

their  robes,  and  seated  with  stern  tranquillity  in 
their  curule  chairs  ;  in  this  manner  they  suffered 
death  without  resistance  or  even  supplication. 
Such  conduct  was,  in  them,  applauded  as  noble 
and  magnanimous  ;  in  the  hapless  Indian  it  was 
reviled  as  obstinate  and  sullen !  How  truly  are 
we  the  dupes  of  show  and  circumstance !  How 
different  is  virtue,  clothed  in  purple  and  en 
throned  in  state,  from  virtue,  naked  and  destitute, 
and  perishbg  obscurely  in  a  ;vildcrness ! 

But  I  forbear  to  dwell  on  fe?C  gloomy  pict 
ures.  The  eastern  tribes  have  Icy  g  since  dJsaP 
peared  ;  the  forests  that  sheltered  them  have  be"611 
laid  low,  and  scarce  any  traces  remain  of  thein 
in  the  thickly  settled  States  of  New  England, 
excepting  here  and  there  the  Indian  name  of  a 
village  or  a  stream.  And  such  m^c*,  <**&**, f  or 
later,  be  the  fate  of  t  W^.  other  tribes  which  skirt 
the  frontier  and  have  occasionally  been  inveigled 
from  their  forests  to  mingle  in  the  wars  of  white 
men.  In  a  little  while,  and  they  will  go  the  way 
that  then*  brethren  have  gone  before.  The  few 
hordes  which  still  linger  about  the  shores  of  Hu 
ron  and  Superior,  and  the  tributary  streams  of  the 
Mississippi,  will  share  the  fate  of  those  tribes  that 
once  spread  over  Massachusetts  and  Connecticut, 
9ai(\  lorded  it  along  the  proud  banks  of  the  Hud 
son  ;  of  that  gigantic  race  said  to  have  existed  on 
the  borders  of  the  Susquehanna  ;  and  of  those  va 
rious  nations  that  flourished  about  the  Potomac 
and  the  Rappahannock,  and  that  peopled  the  for 
ests  of  the  vast  valley  of  Shenandoah.  They 
will  vanish  like  a  vapor  from  Hie  face  of  the 
25 


386  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

sarth ;  their  very  history  will  be  lost  in 
fulness ;  and  "  the  places  that  now  know  them 
will  know  them  no  more  forever."  Or  if,  per 
chance,  some  dubious  memorial  of  them  should 
survive,  it  may  be  in  the  romantic  dreams 
of  the  poet,  to  people  in  imagination  his  glackw 
and  groves,  like  the  fauns  and  satyrs  and  sylvan 
deities  of  antiquity.  But  should  he  venture  upon 
the  dark  story  of  their  wrongs  and  wretchedness  ; 
should  he  tell  how  they  were  invaded,  corrupted., 
despoiled,  driven  from  their  native  abodes  and  the 
sepulchres  of  ilicir  lathers,  hunted  like  wild 
beas1^  about  the  earth,  and  sent  down  with  vio- 
lep.ce»and  butchery  to  the  grave,  posterity  will 
either  turn  with  horror  and  incredulity  from  the 
kue,  or  blush  with  indignation  at  the  inhumanity 
of  <^A  /!»^thP.rs.  —  "  We  are  driven  back/' 
said  an  old  warrior,  «  urutf  we  can  retreat  no  far 
ther ; —  our  hatchets  are  broken,  ouv  bows  are 
snapped,  our  fires  are  nearly  extinguished  :  —  <» 
little  longer,  and  the  white  man  will  cease  tc 
persecute  us  —  for  we  shall  cease  to  exist  I" 


PHILIP    OF   POKANOKET. 

AN  INDIAN  MEMOIR. 


As  monumental  bronze  unchanged  his  look. 
A  soul  that  pity  touch'd,  but  never  shook: 
Train'd  from  his  tree-rock'd  cradle  to  his  bier 
The  tierce  extremes  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 
Impassive  —  fearing  but  the  shame  of  fear  — 
A  stoic  of  the  woods  —  a  man  without  a  tear. 

C  A  Ml* HELL. 

T  is  to  be  regretted  that  those  eaily 
writers,  who  treated  of  the  discovery  and 
settlement  of  America,  have  not  given 
us  more  particular  and  candid  accounts  of  the  re 
markable  characters  that  flourished  in  savage  lite. 
The  scanty  anecdotes  which  have  reached  us  are 
full  of  peculiarity  and  interest ;  they  furnish  ua 
with  nearer  glimpses  of  human  nature,  and  show 
what  man  is  in  a  comparatively  primitive  state, 
and  what  he  owes  to  civilization.  There  is  some 
thing  of  the  charm  of  discovery  in  lighting  upon 
these  wild  and  unexplored  tracts  of  human  na 
ture  ;  in  witnessing,  as  it  were,  the  native  growth 
of  moral  sentiment,  and  perceiving  those  gener 
ou3  and  romantic  qualities  which  have  been  arti 
ficially  cultivated  by  society,  Tegetating  in  spcn- 
taneous  hardihood  and  rude  magnificence. 

In  civilized  life,  where  the  happiness,  &nd  in 
deed    almost    the  existence,  of  man  depends  so 

387 


388  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

much  upon  the  opinion  of  his  fellow-men,  he  is 
constantly  acting  a  studied  part.  The  bold  and 
peculiar  traits  of  native  character  are  refined 
away,  or  softened  down  by  the  levelling  influence 
of  what  is  termed  good  breeding ;  and  he  prac 
tises  so  many  petty  deceptions,  and  affects  so  many 
generous  sentiments,  for  the  purposes  of  popular 
ity,  that  it  is  difficult  to  distinguish  his  real  from 
his  artificial  character.  The  Indian,  on  the  con- 
trary,  free  from  the  restraints  and  refinements  of 
polished  life,  and,  in  a  great  degree,  a  solitary 
and  independent  being,  obeys  the  impulses  of  his 
inclination  or  the  dictates  of  his  judgment  ;  and 
thus  the  attributes  of  his  nature,  being  freely  in 
dulged,  grow  singly  great  and  striking.  Society 
is  like  a  lawn,  whore  every  roughness  is  smoothed, 
every  bramble  eradicated,  and  where  the  eye  ig 
delighted  by  the  smiling  verdure  of  a  velvet  sur 
face  ;  he,  however,  who  would  study  nature  in  it3 
wildness  and  variety,  must  plunge  into  the  forest, 
must  explore  the  glen,  must  ste"  the  torrent,  and 
dare  the  precipice. 

These  reflections  arose  on  c-asually  looking 
through  a  volume  of  early  colonial  history,  where 
in  are  recorded,  with  great  bitterness,  the  outrages 
of  the  Indians,  and  their  wars  with  the  settlers 
of  .New  England.  It  is  painful  to  perceive  even 
from  these  partial  narratives,  how  the  footsteps 
of  civilization  may  be  traced  in  the  blood  of  the 
/  aborigines ;  how  ctisily  the  colonists  were  moved 
to  hostility  by  the  lust  of  conquest ;  tow  merciless 
d  exterminating  was  their  warfare.  The  imag 
ination  shrinks  at  the  idea,  how  many  intellectual 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  389 

beings  were  hunted  from  the  earth,  how  many 
brave  and  noble  hearts,  of  nature's  sterling  coin* 
age,  were  broken  down  and  trampled  in  the 
dust. 

Such  was  the  fate  of  PHILIP  OP  POKANOKF/P, 
an  Indian  warrior,  whose  name  was  once  a  terror 
throughout  Massachusetts  and  Connecticut.  He 
was  the  most  distinguished  of  a  number  of  con 
temporary  Sachems  who  reigned  over  the  Pequods, 
the  Narraganscts,  the  Wampanoags,  and  the  other 
eastern  tribes,  at  the  time  of  the  first  settlement 
of  New  England ;  a  band  of  native  untaught  he 
roes,  who  made  the  most  generous  struggle  of 
which  human  nature  is  capable ;  fighting  to  the 
last  gasp  in  the  cause  of  their  country,  without  a 
hope  of  victory  or  a  thought  of  renown.  Worthy 
of  an  age  of  poetry,  and  fit  subjects  for  local 
story  and  romantic  fiction,  they  have  left  scarcely 
any  authentic  traces  on  the  page  of  history,  but 
stalk,  like  gigantic  shadows,  hi  the  dim  twilight  of 
tradition.* 

"When  the  pilgrims,  as  the  Plymouth  settlers 
are  called  by  their  descendants,  first  took  refuge 
on  the  shores  of  the  New  World,  from  the  relig 
ious  persecutions  of  the  Old,  their  situation  was 
to  the  last  degree  gloomy  and  disheartening.  Few 
in  number,  and  that  number  rapidly  perishing 
away  through  sickness  and  hardships  ;  surround 
ed  by  a  howling  wilderness  and  savage  trilxiS 
exposed  to  the  rigors  of  an  almost  arctic  winter 

*  While  correcting  the  proof-sheets  of  thin  article,  the  suthoi 
Is  informed  that  a  celebrated  Kiii^lish  poet  has  nearly  finished 
in  heroic  pcern  oa  ll\r  story  of  Philip  of  i'okanoket. 


390  THE  SKEl'CH-BOOK. 

and  the  vicissitudes  of  an  ever-shifting  climate '; 
their  minds  were  filled  with  doleful  forebodings, 
and  nothing  preserved  them  from  sinking  into 
despondency  but  the  strong  excitement  of  religious 
enthusiasm.  In  this  forlorn  situation  they  were 
visited  by  Massasoit,  chief  Sagamore  of  the  Warn- 
panoags,  a  powerful  chief,  who  reigned  over  a 
great  extant  of  country.  Instead  of  taking  ad 
vantage  of  the  scanty  number  of  the  strangers, 
and  expelling  them  from  his  territories,  into  which 
they  had  intruded,  he  seemed  at  once  to  conceive 
for  them  a  generous  friendship,  and  extended 
towards  them  the  rites  of  primitive  hospitality. 
He  came  early  in  the  spring  to  their  settlement 
of  New  Plymouth,  attended  by  a  mere  handful 
of  followers,  entered  into  a  solemn  league  of  peace 
and  amity ;  sold  them  a  portion  of  the  soil,  and 
promised  to  secure  for  them  the  good-will  of  his 
savage  allies.  Whatever  may  be  said  of  Indian 
perfidy,  it  is  certain  that  the  integrity  and  good 
faith  of  Massasoit  have  never  been  impeached. 
He  continued  a  firm  and  magnanimous  friend  of 
the  white  men  ;  suffering  them  to  extend  their 
possessions,  and  to  strengthen  themselves  in  the 
land  ;  and  betraying  *no  jealousy  of  their  increas 
ing  power  and  prosperity.  Shortly  before  his 
death  he  came  once  more  to  New  Plymouth,  with 
his  son  Alexander,  for  the  purpose  of  renewirg 
the  3ovenant  of  peace,  and  of  securing  it  to  Lia 
posterity. 

At  this  conference  he  endeavored  to  protect  the 
religion  of  his  forefathers  from  the  encroaching 
zeal  of  the  missionaries;  and  stipulated  that  no 


PHILIP   OF  POKANOKET.  391 

further  attempt  should  be  made  to  draw  off  Lii 
people  from  their  ancient  faith ;  but,  finding  the 
English  obstinately  opposed  to  any  such  condition, 
he  mildly  relinquished  the  demand.  Almost  the 
last  act  of  his  life  was  to  bring  his  two  sons 
Alexander  and  Philip  (as  they  had  been  named 
by  the  English),  to  the  residence  of  a  principal 
settler,  recommending  mutual  kindness  and  confi 
dence  ;  and  entreating  that  the  same  love  and 
amity  which  had  existed  between  the  white  men 
and  himself  might  be  continued  afterwards  with 
his  children.  The  good  old  Sachem  died  in  peace, 
and  was  happily  gathered  to  his  fathers  before 
sorrow  came  upon  his  tribe ;  his  children  re- 
mainod  behind  to  experience  the  ingratitude  of 
white  raen. 

Hu  eldest  son,  Alexander,  succeeded  him.  Ho 
was  of  a  quick  and  impetuous  temper,  and  proudly 
tenaoVus  of  his  hereditary  rights  and  dignity 
The  intrusive  policy  and  dictatorial  conduct  of  th* 
Btrarorers  excited  his  indignation  :  and  he  beliH  » 
with  uneasiness  their  exterminating  wars  with 
the  neighboring  tribes.  He  was  doomed  soon  to 
incur  their  hostility,  being  accused  of  plotting 
with  the  Narragansets  to  rise  against  the  English 
ftnd  drive  them  from  the  land.  It  is  impossible 
to  say  whether  this  accusation  was  warranted  by 
facts  or  was  grounded  on  mere  suspicion.  It  is 
evident,  however,  by  the  violent  and  overbearing 
measures  of  the  settlers,  that  they  had  by  tliia 
time  begun  to  feel  conscious  of  the  rapid  increase 
of  their  power,  and  to  gro\v  harsh  and  inconsid 
erate  in  their  treatment  of  the  natives.  They 


392  THE  SKETCHBOOK. 

despatched  an  armed  force  to  seize  upon  Alexan* 
der,  and  to  bring  him  before  their  ccurts.  Ha 
was  traced  to  his  woodland  haunts,  and  surprised 
at  a  hunting-house,  where  he  was  reposing  with 
a  band  of  his  followers,  unarmed,  after  the  toils 
of  the  chase.  The  suddenness  of  his  arrest,  and 
the  outrage  offered  to  his  sovereign  dignity,  so 
preyed  upon  the  irascible  feelings  of  this  proud 
savage,  as  to  throw  him  into  a  raging  fever.  lie 
was  permitted  to  return  home,  on  condition  of 
sending  his  son  as  a  pledge  for  his  reappearance ; 
but  the  blow  he  had  received  was  fatal,  and  be 
fore  he  had  reached  his  home  he  fell  a  victim  to 
the  agonies  of  a  wounded  spirit. 

The  successor  of  Alexander  was  Metacomet, 
or  King  Philip,  as  he  was  called  by  the  settlers, 
on  account  of  his  lofty  spirit  and  ambitious  tem 
per.  These,  together  with  his  well-known  energy 
and  enterprise,  had  rendered  him  an  object  of 
great  jealousy  and  apprehension,  and  he  was  ac 
cused  of  having  always  cherished  a  secret  and 
implacable  hostility  towards  the  whites.  Such 
may  very  probably,  and  very  naturally,  have  been 
the  case.  He  considered  them  as  originally  but 
mere  intruders  into  the  country,  who  had  pre 
sumed  upon  indulgence,  and  were  extending  an 
influence  baneful  to  savage  life.  He  saw  the 
whole  race  of  his  countrymen  melting  before 
them  from  the  face  of  the  earth ;  their  territoriea 
slipping  from  their  hands,  and  their  tribes  beconv 
ing  feeble,  scattered,  and  dependent.  It  may  bo 
said  that  the  soil  was  originally  purchased  by  tho 
settlers ;  but  who  does  not  know  the  nature  of 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  393 

Indian  purchases,  in  the  early  periods  of  coloniza- 
don  ?  The  Europeans  always  made  thrifty  bar 
gains  fhrough  their  superior  adroitness  in  traffic 
and  they  gained  vast  accessions  of  territory  bj 
easily  provoked  hostilities.  An  uncultivated  sav 
age  is  never  a  nice  inquirer  into  the  refinements 
of  law,  by  which  an  injury  may  be  gradually  and 
legally  inflicted.  Leading  facts  are  all  by  wliich 
he  judges;  and  it  was  enough  for  Philip  to  know 
that  before  the  intrusion  of  the  Europeans  his 
countrymen  were  lords  of  the  soil,  and  that  now 
they  were  becoming  vagabonds  in  the  land  of 
their  fathers. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  his  feelings  "of 
general  hostility,  and  his  particular  indignation 
at  the  treatment  of  his  brother,  he  suppressed 
them  for  the  present,  renewed  the  contract  with 
the  settlers,  and  resided  peaceably  for  many  years 
at  Pokanoket,  or,  as  it  was  called  by  the  English, 
Mount  Hope,*  the  ancient  seat  of  dominion  of  his 
tribe.  Suspicions,  however,  which  were  at  first 
but  vague  and  indefinite,  began  to  acquire  form 
and  substance  ;  and  he  was  at  length  charged 
with  attempting  to  instigate  the  various  Eastern 
tribes  to  rise  at  once,  and,  by  a  simultaneoTis  ef 
fort,  to  throw  off  the  yoke  of  their  oppressors.  If 
fo  difficult  at  this  distant  period  to  assign  the  prop 
er  credit  due  to  these  early  accusations  against 
the  Indians.  There  was  a  proneness  to  suspicion; 
and  an  aptness  to  acts  of  violence,  on  the  part 
of  the  whites,  that  gave  weight  and  importance 
to  every  idle  tale.  Informers  abounded  where 

»  Now  Bristol  Rhode  Island. 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


talebearing  met  with  countenance  and  reward 
and  the  sword  was  readily  unsheathed  when  ita 
success  was  certain,  and  it  carved  out  empire. 

The  only  positive  evidence  on  record  against 
Philip  is  the  accusation  of  one  Sausaman,  a  rene- 
gado  Indian,  whose  natural  cunning  had  been 
quickened  by  a  partial  education  which  he  had 
received  among  the  settlers.  He  changed  his 
faith  and  his  allegiance  two  or  three  times,  with 
a  facility  that  evinced  the  looseness  of  his  princi 
ples.  lie  had  acted  for  some  time  as  Philip's 
confidential  secretary  and  counsellor,  and  had 
enjoyed  his  bounty  and  protection.  Finding, 
however,  that  the  clouds  of  adversity  were  gath 
ering  round  his  patron,  he  abandoned  his  service 
and  went  over  to  the  whites  ;  and,  in  order  to 
gain  their  favor,  charged  his  former  benefactor 
with  plotting  against  their  safety.  A  rigorous 
investigation  took  place.  Philip  and  several  of 
his  subjects  submitted  to  be  examined,  but  nothing 
was  proved  against  them.  The  settlers,  however, 
bad  now  gone  too  far  to  retract  ;  they  had  pre 
viously  determined  that  Philip  was  a  dangerous 
neighbor;  they  had  publicly  evinced  their  dis 
trust  ;  and  had  done  enough  to  insure  his  hostil 
ity  ;  according,  therefore,  to  the  usual  mode  of 
reasoning  in  these  cases,  his  destruction  had  be 
come  necessary  to  their  security.  Sausaman,  the 
treacherous  informer,  was  shortly  afterwards  found 
dead,  in  a  pond,  having  fallen  a  victim  to  the 
vengeance  of  his  tribe.  Three  Indians,  one  of 
whom  was  a  friend  and  counsellor  cf  Philip, 
were  apprehended  and  tried,  and,  on  the  testi- 


PHILIP   OF  POKANOKET.  395 

uaony  of  one  very  questionable  witness,  were 
condemned  and  executed  as  murderers. 

Tliis  treatment  of  his  subjects,  and  ignominious 
punishment  of  his  friend,  outraged  the  pride  and 
exasperated  the  passions  of  Philip.  The  bolt 
which  had  fallen  thus  at  his  very  feet  awakened 
him  to  the  gathering  storm,  and  he  determined  to 
trust  himself  no  longer  in  the  power  of  the  white 
men.  The  fate  of  his  insulted  and  broken-hearted 
brother  still  rankled  in  his  mind  ;  and  he  had  a 
further  warning  in  the  tragical  story  of  Mian- 
tonimo,  a  great  Sachem  of  the  Narragansets, 
who,  after  manfully  facing  his  accusers  before  a 
tribunal  of  the  colonists,  exculpating  himself 
from  a  charge  of  conspiracy,  and  receiving  assur 
ances  of  amity,  had  been  perfidiously  despatched 
at  their  instigation.  Philip,  therefore,  gathered 
his  fighting  men  about  him  ;  persuaded  all  stran 
gers  that  he  could  to  join  his  cause;  sent  the 
women  and  children  to  the  Narragansets  for 
safety ;  and  wherever  he  appeared,  was  contin 
ually  surrounded  by  armed  warriors. 

When  the  two  parties  were  thus  in  a  state  of 
distrust  and  irritation,  the  least  spark  was  suffi 
cient  to  set  them  in  a  flame.  The  Indians,  hav 
ing  weapons  in  their  hands,  grew  mischievous, 
aad  committed  various  petty  depredations.  In 
One  of  their  maraudings  a  warrior  was  fired  on 
and  killed  by  a  settler.  This  was  the  signal  for 
open  hostilities ;  the  Indians  pressed  to  revenga 
the  death  of  their  comrade,  and  the  alarm  of  war 
resounded  through  the  Plymouth  colony. 

In  the  early  chronicles  of  these  dark  and  mcV 


396  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ancboly  times  we  meet  with  many  inclinations  of 
the  diseased  state  of  the  public  mind.  The  gloom 
of  religious  abstraction,  and  the  wildness  of  their 
situation,  among  trackless  forests  and  savage 
tribes,  had  disposed  the  colonists  to  superstitious 
fancies,  and  had  filled  their  imaginations  with  the 
frightful  chimeras  of  witchcraft  and  spcctrology 
They  were  much  given  also  to  a  belief  in  omens. 
The  troubles  with  Philip  and  his  Indiana  were 
preceded,  we  are  told,  by  a  variety  of  those 
awful  warnings  which  forerun  great  and  public 
calamities.  The  perfect  form  of  an  Indian  bow 
appeared  hi  the  air  at  New  Plymouth,  which  was 
looked  upon  by  the  inhabitants  as  a  "  prodigious 
apparition."  At  Hadley,  Northampton,  and  other 
towns  in  their  neighborhood,  "  was  heard  the  re 
port  of  a  great  piece  of  ordnance,  with  a  shaking 
of  the  earth  and  a  considerable  echo."  *  Others 
were  alarmed  on  a  still,  sunshiny  morning  by  the 
discharge  of  guns  and  muskets  ;  bullets  seemed 
to  whistle  past  them,  and  the  noise  of  drums  re 
sounded  in  the  air,  seeming  to  pass  away  to  the 
westward ;  others  fancied  that  they  heard  tho 
galloping  of  horses  over  their  heads ;  and  certain 
monstrous  births,  which  took  place  about  the 
time,  filled  the  superstitious  in  some  towns  with 
doleful  forebodings.  Many  of  these  portentous 
aights  and  sounds  may  be  ascribed  to  natural 
phenomena :  to  the  northern  lights  which  occur 
vividly  in  those  latitudes  ;  the  meteors  which  ex 
plode  in  the  air ;  the  casual  rushing  of  a  bias! 
through  the  top  branches  of  the  forest ;  the  craah 

*  The  Rev.  Increase  Mather's  Hiatory. 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  397 

of  fallen  trees  or  disrupted  rocks  ;  and  to  those 
other  uncouth  sounds  and  echoes  which  wil! 
sometimes  strike  the  car  so  strangely  amidst  tha 
profound  stillness  of  woodland  solitudes.  These 
may  have  startled  some  melancholy  imaginations, 
may  hive  been  exaggerated  by  the  love  for  the 
Giarveilous,  and  listened  to  with  that  avidity  with 
which  we  devour  whatever  is  fearful  and  myste 
rious*.  The  universal  currency  of  these  supersti 
tious  fancies,  and  the  grave  record  made  of  them 
by  one  of  the  learned  men  of  the  day,  are  strongly 
characteristic  of  the  times. 

The  nature  of  the  contest  that  ensued  was  such 
as  too  often  distinguishes  the  warfare  between 
civilized  men  and  savages.  On  the  part  of  the 
whites  it  was  conducted  with  superior  skill  and 
success  ;  but  with  a  wastefulness  of  the  blood, 
and  a  disregard  of  the  natural  rights  of  their  an 
tagonists ;  on  the  part  of  the  Indians  it  was 
waged  with  the  desperation  of  men  fearless  of 
death,  and  who  had  nothing  to  expect  from  peace 
but  humiliation,  dependence,  and  decay. 

The  events  of  the  war  are  transmitted  to  us 
by  a  worthy  clergyman  of  the  time ;  who  dwells 
with  horror  and  indignation  on  every  hostile  act  oi 
Ithe  Indians,  however  justifiable,  whilst  he  men 
tions  with  applause  the  most  sanguinary  atrocities 
fif  the  whites.  Philip  is  reviled  as  a  murderer 
and  a  traitor ;  without  considering  that  he  was  a 
true-born  prince,  gallantly  fighting  at  the  head 
of  his  subjects  to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  his  fam« 
ily ;  to  retrieve  the  tottering  power  of  his  line ; 
and  to  deliver  his  native  land  from  the  oppression 
of  usurping  strangers. 


398  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

The  project  of  a  wide  and  simultaneous  re 
volt,  if  such  had  really  been  formed,  was  worthy 
of  a  capacious  miiid,  and,  had  it  not  been  prema 
turely  discovered,  might  have  been  overwhelming 
in  its  consequences.  The  war  that  actually  broke 
out  was  but  a  war  of  detail,  a  mere  succession 
of  casual  exploits  and  unconnected  enterprises. 
Still  it  sets  forth  the  military  genius  and  daring 
prowess  of  Philip ;  and  wherever,  in  the  preju 
diced  and  passionate  narrations  that  have  been 
given  of  it,  we  can  arrive  at  simple  facts,  we  find 
him  displaying  a  vigorous  mind,  a  fertility  of  ex 
pedients,  a  contempt  of  suffering  and  hardsliip, 
and  an  unconquerable  resolution,  that  command 
our  sympathy  and  applause. 

Driven  from  his  paternal  domains  at  Mount 
Hope,  he  threw  himself  into  the  depths  of  those 
vast  and  trackless  forests  that  skirted  the  settle 
ments,  and  were  almost  impervious  to  anything 
but  a  wild  beast,  or  an  Indian.  Here  he  gath 
ered  together  his  forces,  like  a  storm  accumulat 
ing  its  stores  of  mischief  in  the  bosom  of  the 
thunder-cloud,  and  would  suddenly  emerge  at  a 
time  and  place  least  expected,  carrying  havoc  and 
dismay  into  the  villages.  There  were  now  ami 
then  indications  of  these  impending  ravages,  that 
filled  the  minds  of  the  colonists  with  awe  and 
apprehension.  The  report  of  a  distant  gun  would 
perhaps  be  heard  from  the  solitary  woodland, 
where  there  was  known  to  be  no  white  man ;  tho 
tattle  which  had  been  wandering  in  the  wooda 
would  sometimes  return  home  wounded ;  or  an 
Indian  or  two  would  be  seen  lurking  about  tb<i 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  399 

skirts  of  the  forests,  and  suddenly  disappearing  j 
as  the  lightning  will  sometimes  be  seen  playing 
silently  about  the  edge  of  the  cloud  that  is  brew 
ing  up  the  tempest. 

Though  sometimes  pursued  and  even  sur 
rounded  by  the  settlers,  yet  Philip  as  often  escaped 
almost  miraculously  from  their  toils,  and  plunging 
into  the  wilderness,  would  be  lost  to  all  search  or 
inquiry,  until  he  again  emerged  at  some  far  distant 
quarter,  laying  the  country  desolate.  Among  his 
strongholds  Vere  the  great  swamps  or  morasses, 
which  extend  in  some  parts  of  New  England; 
composed  of  loose  bogs  of  deep  black  mud ;  per 
plexed  with  thickets,  brambles,  rank  weeds,  the 
shattered  and  mouldering  trunks  of  fallen  trees, 
overshadowed  by  lugubrious  hemlocks.  The  un 
certain  footing  and  the  tangled  mazes  of  these 
shaggy  wilds  rendered  them  almost  impenetrable 
to  the  white  man,  though  the  Indian  could  thrid 
their  labyrinths  with  the  agility  of  a  deer.  Into 
one  of  these,  the  great  swamp  of  Pocasset  Neck, 
was  Philip  once  driven  with  a  band  of  his  follow 
ers.  The  English  did  not  dare  to  pursue  him, 
fearing  to  venture  into  these  dark  and  frightful 
recesses,  where  they  might  perish  in  fens  and 
miry  pits,  or  be  shot  down  by  lurking  foes.  They 
therefore  invested  the  entrance  to  the  Neck,  and 
began  to  build  a  fort,  with  the  thought  of  starving 
out  the  foe ;  but  Philip  and  his  warriors  wafted 
themselves  on  a  raft  over  an  arm  of  the  sea,  in 
the  dead  of  the  night,  leaving  the  women  and  chil 
dren  behind  ;  and  escaped  away  to  the  westward 
kindling  the  flames  of  war  among  the  tribes  of 


400  THE  SKETCH-LOOK. 

Massachusetts  and  the  Nipmuck  country,  and 
threatening  the  Colony  of  Connecticut. 

In  this  way  Philip  became  a  theme  of  univer 
sal  apprehension.  The  mystery  in  which  he  was 
enveloped  exaggerated  his  real  terrors.  He  was 
an  evil  that  walked  in  darkness,  whose  coming 
none  could  foresee,  and  against  which  none  knew 
when  to  be  on  the  alert.  The  whole  country 
abounded  with  rumors  and  alarms.  Philip  seemed 
almost  possessed  of  ubiquity ;  for,  in  whatever 
part  of.  the  widely  extended  frontier  an  irruption 
from  the  forest  took  place,  Philip  was  said  to  be 
its  leader.  Many  superstitious  notions  also  were 
circulated  concerning  him.  He  wras  said  to  deal 
in  necromancy,  and  to  be  attended  by  an  old  In 
dian  witch  or  prophetess,  whom  he  consulted,  and 
who  assisted  him  by  her  charms  and  incantations. 
This  indeed  was  frequently  the  case  with  Indian 
chiefs  ;  either  through  their  own  credulity,  or  to 
act  upon  that  of  their  followers  ;  and  the  influence 
of  the  prophet  and  the  dreamer  over  Indian  su- 
persiition  has  been  fully  evidenced  in  recent  in 
stances  of  savage  warfare. 

At  the  time  that  Philip  effected  his  escape  from 
Pocassct,  his  fortunes  were  in  a  desperate  comii- 
tion.  His  forces  had  been  thinned  by  repeated 
fights,  and  he  had  lost  almost  the  whole  of  his  re 
sources.  In  this  time  of  adversity  he  found  a 
faithful  friend  in  Canonchet,  chief  Sachem  of  all 
tho  Narragansets.  He  was  the  son  and  heir  of 
Miontonimo,  the  great  Sachem  who,  as  already 
mentioned,  after  an  honorable  acquittal  of  the 
charge  of  conspiracy,  had  been  privately  put  to 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  401 

death  at  the  perfidious  instigations  of  the  settlers. 
u  He  was  the  heir,"  says  the  old  chronicler, "  of  all 
his  father's  pride  and  insolence,  as  well  as  of  his 
malice  towards  the  English  ; "  —  he  certainly  was 
the  heir  of  his  insults  and  injuries,  and  the  legiti 
mate  avenger  of  his  murder.  Though  he  had  for  • 
borne  to  take  an  active  part  in  this  hopeless  war, 
yet  he  received  Philip  and  his  broken  forces  with 
open  arms,  and  gave  them  the  most  generous 
countenance  and  support.  This  at  once  drew 
upon  him  the  hostility  of  the  English  ;  and  it  was 
determined  to  strike  a  signal  blow  that  should  in 
volve  both  the  Sachems  in  one  common  ruin.  A 
great  force  was,  therefore,  gathered  together  from 
Massachusetts,  Plymouth,  and  Connecticut,  and 
was  sent  into  the  Narraganset  country  in  the  depth 
of  winter,  when  the  swamps,  being  frozen  and 
leafless,  could  be  traversed  with  comparative  facil 
ity,  and  would  no  longer  afford  dark  and  impene 
trable  fastnesses  to  the  Indians. 

Apprehensive  of  attack,  Canonchet  had  con 
veyed  the  greater  part  of  his  stores,  together  with 
the  old,  the  infirm,  the  women  and  children  of 
his  tribe,  to  a  strong  fortress,  where  he  and 
Philip  had  likewise  drawn  up  the  flower  of  their 
forces.  This  fortress,  deemed  by  the  Indians  inv* 
pregnable,  was  situated  upon  a  rising  mound,  or 
kind  of  island,  of  five  or  six  acres,  in  the  midst 
of  a  swamp  ;  it  was  constructed  with  a  degree 
of  judgment  and  skill  vastly  superior  to  what  ig 
usually  displayed  in  Indian  fortification,  and  in 
dicative  of  the  martial  genius  of  these  two  chief' 
tains. 

26 


402  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Guided  by  a  renegado  Indian,  the  English  pene« 
trated,  through  December  snows,  to  this  strong 
hold,  and  came  upon  the  garrison  by  surprise, 
The  fight  was  fierce  and  tumultuous.  The  as- 
«*ailants  -<vere  repulsed  in  their  first  attack,  and 
several  of  their  bravest  officers  were  shot  down  in 
the  act  of  storming  the  fortress  sword  in  hand. 
The  assault  was  renewed  with  greater  success. 
A  lodgment  was  effected.  The  Indians  were 
driven  from  one  post  to  another.  They  disputed 
their  ground  inch  by  inch,  fighting  with  the  fury 
of  despair.  Most  of  their  veterans  were  cut  to 
pieces ;  and  after  a  long  and  bloody  battle,  Philip 
and  Canonchet,  with  a  handful  of  surviving  war 
riors,  retreated  from  the  fort,  and  took  refuge  in 
the  thickets  of  the  surrounding  forest. 

The  victors  set  fire  to  the  wigwams  and  the 
fort ;  the  whole  was  soon  in  a  blaze ;  many  of 
the  old  men,  the  women,  and  the  children  per 
ished  in  the  flames.  This  last  outrage  overcame 
even  the  stoicism  of  the  savage.  The  neighbor 
ing  woods  resounded  with  the  yells  of  rage  and 
despair,  uttered  by  the  fugitive  warriors,  as  they 
beheld  the  destruction  of  their  dwellings,  and 
heard  the  agonizing  cries  of  their  wives  and  off 
spring.  "  The  burning  of  the  wigwams,"  says  a 
contemporary  writer,  "  the  shrieks  and  cries  of 
the  women  and  children,  and  the  yelling  of  the 
warriors,  exhibited  a  most  horrible  and  affecting 
scene,  so  that  it  greatly  moved  some  of  the  sol 
diers/'  The  same  writer  cautiously  adds,  "  they 
were  in  much  doubt  then,  and  afterwards  seriously 
inquired,  whether  burning  their  enemies  ali\t 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  403 

couM  be  consistent  with  humanity  and  the  bener* 
olent  principles  of  the  Gospel."  * 

The  fate  of  the  brave  and  generous  Canonchei 
is  worthy  of  particular  mention :  the  last  scene  of 
his  life  is  one  of  the  noblest  instances  on  record 
of  Indian  magnanimity. 

Broken  down  in  his  power  and  resources  by 
this  signal  defeat,  yet  faithful  to  his  ally,  and  to 
the  hapless  cause  which  he  had  espoused,  he  re 
jected  all  overtures  of  peace,  offered  on  condition 
of  betraying  Philip  and  his  followers,  and  declared 
that "  he  would  fight  it  out  to  the  last  man,  rather 
than  become  a  servant  to  the  English."  His 
home  being  destroyed  ;  his  country  haiassed  and 
laid  waste  by  the  incursions  of  the  conquerors; 
he  was  obliged  to  wander  away  to  the  b<mks  of 
the  Connecticut ;  where  he  formed  a  rallying 
point  to  the  whole  body  of  western  Indians,  and 
laid  waste  several  of  the  English  settlements. 

Early  in  the  spring  he  departed  on  a  hazardous 
expedition,  with  only  thirty  chosen  men,  to  pene 
trate  to  Seaconck,  in  the  vicinity  of  Mount  Hope, 
and  to  procure  seed-corn  to  plant  for  the  suste 
nance  of  his  troops.  This  little  band  of  advcntur* 
ers  had  passed  safely  through  the  Peqaod  coun 
try,  and  were  in  the  centre  of  the  Narraganset, 
resting  at  some  wigwams  near  Pawtucket  KITCT, 
when  an  alarm  was  given  of  an  approaching  en 
emy.  Having  but  seven  men  by  him  at  the  unify 
Canonchet  despatched  two  of  them  to  the  top  of  a 
neighboring  hill,  to  bring  intelligence  of  the  foe. 

Panic-struck  by  the  appearance  of  a  trcop  of 
*  MS.  of  the  Rev.  W.  Ruggles. 


404  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

English  and  Indians  rapidly  advancing,  they  fled 
in  breathless  terror  past  their  chieftain,  without 
stopping  to  iiJbrm  him  of  the  danger.  Canonchct 
sent  another  scout,  who  did  the  same.  lie  then 
Bent  two  more,  one  of  whom,  hurrying  back  in 
confusion  and  affriglu,  told  him  that  the  whole 
British  army  was  at  hand.  Canonchct  saw  there 
v/as  no  choice  but  immediate  flight.  He  attempted 
to  escape  round  the  hill,  but  was  perceived  and 
hotly  pursued  by  the  hostile  Indians,  and  a  few 
of  the  fleetest  of  the  English.  Finding  the  swift* 
est  pursuer  close  upon  his  heels,  he  threw  off, 
first  his  blanket,  then  his  silver-laced  coat  and 
belt  of  peag,  by  which  his  enemies  knew  him  to 
be  Canonchet,  and  redoubled  the  eagerness  of 
pursuit. 

At  length,  in  dashing  through  the  river,  his 
foot  slipped  upon  a  stone,  and  he  fell  so  deep  as 
to  wet  his  gun.  This  accident  so  struck  him 
with  despair,  that,  as  he  afterwards  confessed, 
"  his  heart  and  his  bowels  turned  within  him,  and 
he  became  like  a  rotten  stick,  void  of  strength." 

To  such  a  degree  was  he  unnerved,  thai,  being 
seized  by  a  Pcquod  Indian  within  a  short  distance 
of  the  river,  he  xade  no  resistance,  though  a  man 
of  great  vigor  o :  body  and  boldness  of  heart.  But 
on  being  made  prisoner  the  whole  pride  of  hia 
€pii  it  arose  within  him;  and  from  that  moment, 
we  find,  in  the  anecdotes  given  by  his  enemies, 
nothing  but  repeated  flashes  of  elevated  and 
prince-like  heroism.  Being  questioned  by  one  of 
the  English  who  first  came  up  with  him,  and  who 
had  not  attained  his  twenty  -  second  year,  the 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  *05 

proud-hearted  warrior,  looking  with  lofty  conleinpi 
upon  his  youthful  countenance,  replied,  "  You  are 
a  child  ;  you  cannot  understand  matters  of  war ; 
let  your  brother  or  your  chief  come,  —  him  will 
I  answer." 

Though  repeated  offers  were  made  to  him  of 
his  life,  on  condition  of  submitting  with  his  nation 
to  the  English,  yet  he  rejected  them  with  disdain, 
and  refused  to  send  any  proposals  of  the  kind  to 
the  great  body  of  his  subjects ;  saying,  that  he 
knew  none  of  them  would  comply.  Being  re 
proached  with  his  breach  of  faith  towards  the 
whites, —  his  boast  that  he  would  not  deliver  up 
a  Wampanoag  nor  the  paring  of  a  Wampanoag'a 
nail,  —  and  his  threat  that  he  would  burn  the 
English  ah* ve  in  their  houses,  —  he  disdained  to 
justify  himself,  haughtily  answering  that  others 
were  as  forward  for  the  war  as  himself,  and  "  ho 
desired  to  hear  no  more  thereof." 

So  noble  and  unshaken  a  spirit,  so  true  a  fidel 
ity  to  his  cause  and  his  friend,  might  have  touched 
the  feelings  of  the  generous  and  the  brave  ;  but 
Canonchet  was  an  Indian,  a  being  towards  whom 
war  had  no  courtesy,  humanity  no  law,  religion 
no  compassion; — he  was  condemned  to  die.  The 
last  words  of  him  that  are  recorded  are  worthy 
the  greatness  of  his  soul.  When  sentence  of  death 
vras  passed  upon  him,  he  observed  "that  he  liked 
't  well,  for  he  should  die  before  his  heart  was  soft, 
or  he  had  spoken  anything  unworthy  of  himself." 
His  enemies  gave  him  the  death  of  a  soldier 
for  ho  was  shot  at  Stoningham,  by  three  young 
Sachems  of  his  own  rank. 


406  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

The  defeat  at  the  Narraganset  fortress,  and  the 
death  of  Canonchet,  were  fatal  blows  to  the  for 
tunes  of  King  Philip.  lie  made  an  ineffectual 
attempt  to  raise  a  head  of  war,  by  stirring  up  the 
Mohawks  to  take  arms ;  but  though  possessed  of 
the  native  talents  of  a  statesman,  his  arts  were 
counteracted  by  the  superior  arts  of  his  enlight 
ened  enemies,  and  the  terror  of  their  warlike  skill 
began  to  subdue  the  resolution  of  the  neighboring 
tribes.  The  unfortunate  chieftain  saw  himself 
daily  stripped  of  power,  and  his  ranks  rapidly 
thinning  around  him.  Some  were  suborned  by 
the  whites  ;  others  fell  victims  to  hunger  and  fa 
tigue,  and  to  the  frequent  attacks  by  which  they 
were  harassed.  His  stores  were  all  captured; 
his  chosen  friends  were  swept  away  from  before 
his  eyes ;  his  uncle  was  shot  down  by  his  side ; 
his  sister  was  carried  into  captivity  ;  and  in  one 
of  his  narrow  escapes  he  was  compelled  to  leave 
his  beloved  wife  and  only  son  to  the  mercy  of  the 
enemy.  "  His  ruin,"  says  the  historian,  "  being 
thus  gradually  carried  on,  his  misery  was  not  pre 
vented,  but  augmented  thereby ;  being  himself 
made  acquainted  with  the  sense  and  experimen- 
tal  feeling  of  the  captivity  of  his  children,  losa 
of  friends,  slaughter  of  his  subjects,  bereave 
ment  of  all  family  relations,  and  being  stripped 
of  all  outward  comforts,  before  his  own  life 
should  be  taken  away." 

To  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  misfortunes,  hia 
own  followers  began  to  plot  against  his  life,  that 
by  sacrificing  him  they  might  purchase  dishonor 
able  safety.  Through  treachery  a  number  of  his 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET.  407 

faithful  adherents,  the  subjects  of  "Wetaraoe,  at 
Indian  princess  of  Pocasset,  a  near  kinswoman 
and  confederate  of  Philip,  were  betrayed  into  the 
hands  of  the  enemy.  Wetamoe  was  among  them 
at  the  time,  and  attempted  to  make  her  escape  by 
crossing  a  neighboring  river  :  either  exhausted  by 
swimming,  or  starved  by  cold  and  hunger,  she 
was  found  dead  and  naked  near  the  water-side. 
But  persecution  ceased  not  at  the  grave.  Even 
death,  the  refuge  of  the  wretched,  where  the 
wicked  commonly  cease  from  troubling,  was  no 
protection  to  this  outcast  female,  whose  great 
crime  was  affectionate  fidelity  to  her  kinsman  and 
her  friend.  Her  corpse  was  the  object  of  un 
manly  and  dastardly  vengeance  ;  the  head  was  sev 
ered  from  the  body  and  set  upon  a  pole,  and  waa 
thus  exposed  at  Taunton,  to  the  view  of  her  cap 
tive  subjects.  They  immediately  recognized  the 
features  of  their  unfortunate  queen,  and  were  so 
affected  at  this  barbarous  spectacle,  that  we  are 
told  they  broke  forth  into  the  "  most  horrid  and 
diabolical  lamentations." 

However  Philip  had  borne  up  against  the  com 
plicated  miseries  and  misfortunes  that  surrounded 
him,  the  treachery  of  his  followers  seemed  to  wring 
his  heart  and  reduce  him  to  despondency.  It  13 
said  that  "  he  never  rejoiced  afterwards,  nor  had 
success  in  any  of  his  designs."  The  spring  of  hope 
was  broken,  —  the  ardor  of  enterprise  was  extin« 
guished,  —  he  looked  around,  and  all  was  danger 
and  darkness ;  there  was  no  eye  to  pity,  nor  any 
arm  that  could  bring  deliverance.  With  a  scanty 
band  of  followers,  who  still  remain sd  true  to  hii 


408  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

desperate  foj  tunes,  the  unhappy  Pliilip  wandered 
back  to  the  vicinity  of  Mount  Hope,  the  ancient 
dwelling  of  his  fathers.  Here  he  lurked  about, 
like  a  spectre,  among  the  scenes  of  former  power 
and  prosperity,  now  bereft  of  home,  of  family  arid 
friend.  There  needs  no  better  picture  of  his  les- 
titude  and  piteous  situation  than  that  furnished 
by  the  homely  pen  of  the  chronicler,  who  is  un 
warily  enlisting  the  feelings  of  the  reader  in  favor 
of  the  hapless  warrior  whom  he  reviles.  "  Philip,' 
he  says,  "  like  a  savage  wild  beast,  having  been 
hunted  by  the  English  forces  through  the  woods, 
above  a  hundred  miles  backward  and  forward,  a" 
last  was  driven  to  his  own  den  upon  Moun? 
Hope,  where  he  retired,  with  a  few  of  his  bes\ 
friends,  into  a  swamp,  which  proved  but  a  prison 
to  keep  him  fast  till  the  messengers  of  death  camo 
by  divine  permission  to  execute  vengeance  upoc 
him." 

Even  in  this  last  refuge  of  desperation  and  de 
spair,  a  sullen  grandeur  gathers  round  his  memory 
We  picture  him  to  ourselves  seated  among  his 
oareworn  followers,  brooding  in  silence  over  his 
blasted  fortunes,  and  acquiring  a  savage  sublimity 
from  the  wildness  and  dreariness  of  his  lurking- 
place.  Defeated,  but  not  dismayed  —  crushed  to 
the  earth,  but  not  humiliated  —  he  seemed  to  grow 
more  haughty  beneath  disaster,  and  to  experience 
a  fierce  satisfaction  in  draining  the  last  dregs  of 
bitterness.  Little  minds  are  tamed  and  subdued 
by  misfortune  ;  but  great  minds  rise  above  it.  The 
very  idea  of  submission  awakened  the  fury  of 
Philip,  and  he  smote  to  death  one  of  his  followers. 


PHILIP   OF  POKANOKET.  40? 

who  proposed  an  expedient  of  peace.  The  brothei 
of  the  victim  made  his  escape,  and  in  revenge  be- 
traycd  the  retreat  of  his  chieftain.  A  body  o/ 
white  men  and  Indians  were  immediately  de 
spatched  to  the  swamp  where  Philip  lay  crouched 
glaring  with  fury  and  despair.  Before  he  wa? 
aware  of  their  approach,  they  had  begun  to  sur 
round  him.  In  a  little  while  he  saw  live  of  his 
trustiest  followers  laid  dead  at  his  feet ;  all  resist 
ance  was  vain  ;  he  rushed  forth  from  his  covert, 
and  made  a  headlong  attempt  to  escape,  but  wa# 
shot  through  the  heart  by  a  renegado  Indian  vt 
his  own  nation. 

Such  is  the  scanty  story  of  the  brave,  but  ua- 
fortunate  King  Philip ;  persecuted  while  living, 
slandered  and  dishonored  when  dead.  If,  how 
ever,  we  consider  even  the  prejudiced  anecdotes 
furnished  us  by  his  enemies,  we  may  perceive  in 
them  traces  of  amiable  and  lofty  character  suffi 
cient  to  awaken  sympathy  for  his  fate,  and  respect 
for  his  memory.  We  find  that,  amidst  all  the 
harassing  cares  and  ferocious  passions  of  constant 
warfare,  he  was  alive  to  the  softer  feelings  of 
connubial  love  and  paternal  tenderness,  and  to 
the  generous  sentiment  of  friendship.  The  cap 
tivity  of  his  "beloved  wife  and  only  son"  are 
mentioned  with  exultation  as  causing  him  poig 
nant  misery:  the  death  of  any  near  friend  ia 
triumphantly  recorded  as  a  new  blow  on  his  sen* 
gibilities;  but  the  treachery  and  desertion  of  many 
of  his  followers,  in  whose  affections  he  had  con 
fided,  is  said  to  have  desolated  his  heart,  and  to 
have  bereaved  him  of  all  further  comfort.  He 


410  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

was  a  patriot  attached  to  his  native  soil,  —  a 
prince  true  to  his  subjects,  and  indignant  of  thei* 
wrongs,  —  a  soldier,  daring  in  battle,  firm  in  ad- 
rersity,  patient  of  fatigue,  of  hunger,  of  every 
variety  of  bodily  suffering,  and  ready  to  perish 
in  the  cause  he  had  espoused.  Proud  of  heart, 
and  with  an  untamable  love  of  natural  liberty, 
he  preferred  to  enjoy  it  among  the  beasts  of  the 
forests  or  in  the  dismal  and  famished  recesses 
of  swamps  and  morasses,  rather  than  bow  his 
haughty  spirit  to  submission,  and  live  depend 
ent  and  despised  in  the  ease  and  luxury  of  the 
settlements.  With  heroic  qualities  and  bold 
achievements  that  would  have  graced  a  civilized 
warrior,  and  have  rendered  him  the  theme  of  the 
poet  and  the  historian,  he  lived  a  wanderer 
and  a  fugitive  in  his  native  land,  and  went  down, 
like  a  lonely  bark  foundering  amid  darkness  and 
tempest  —  without  a  pitying  eye  to  weep  his  fall, 
or  a  friendly  hand  to  record  his  struggle. 


J01L?  BULL. 


An  oil  song,  made  by  an  aged  old  pate, 

Of  an  old  wcrshipful  gentleman  who  had  a  great  estate, 

That  kept  a  brave  old  house  at  a  bountiful  rate, 

And  an  old  porter  to  relieve  the  poor  at  his  gate. 

With  an  old  study  fill'd  full  of  learned  old  books, 

With  an  old  reverend  chaplain,  you  might  know  him  ly  hi* 

looks, 

With  an  old  buttery  hatch  worn  quite  off  the  hooks, 
And  an  old  khuhen  that  maintained  half-a-dozen  old  cooia. 
Like  an  old  courtier,  etc. 

OLD  Soso. 

HERE  is  no  species  of  humor  in  which 
the  English  more  excel  than  that  which 
consists  in  caricaturing  and  giving  ludi 
crous  appellations,  or  nicknames.  In  this  way 
they  have  whimsically  designated,  not  merely 
individuals,  but  nations ;  and,  in  their  fondness 
for  pushing  a  joke,  they  have  not  spared  even 
themselves.  One  would  think  that,  in  personify, 
ing  itself,  a  nation  would  be  apt  to  picture  some 
thing  grand,  heroic,  and  imposing ;  but  it  is  char 
acteristic  of  the  popular  humor  of  the  English, 
and  of  their  love  for  what  is  blunt,  comic,  and 
familiar,  that  they  have  embodied  their  national 
oddities  in  the  figure  of  a  sturdy,  corpulent  old 
fellow,  with  a  three-cornered  hat,  red  waistcoat, 
leather  breeches,  and  stout  oaken  cudgel.  Thus 
they  have  taken  a  singular  delight  in  exhibiting 
their  most  private  foibles  in  a  laughable  point  of 

411 


412  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

view ;  and  have  been  so  successful  in  their  de 
lineations,  that  there  is  scarcely  a  being  in  actual 
existence  more  absolutely  present  to  the  pub 
lic  mind  than  that  eccentric  personage,  John 
Bull. 

Perhaps  the  continual  contemplation  of  the 
character  thus  drawn  ot  them  has  contributed  to 
fix  it  upon  the  nation,  and  thus  to  give  reality 
to  what  at  firs*  may  have  been  painted  in  a  great 
measure  from  the  imagination.  Men  are  apt  to 
acquire  peculiarities  that  are  continually  ascribed 
to  them.  The  common  orders  of  English  seem 
wonderfully  captivated  with  the  beau  ideal  which 
they  have  formed  of  Jolin  Bull,  and  endeavor  to 
act  up  to  the  broad  caricature  that  is  perpetually 
before  their  eyes.  Unluckily,  they  sometimes 
make  their  boasted  Bull-ism  an  apology  for  theii 
prejudice  or  grossness  ;  and  this  I  have  especially 
noticed  among  those  truly  homebred  and  genuine 
sons  of  the  soil  who  have  never  migrated  beyond 
the  sound  of  Bow-bells.  If  one  of  these  should 
be  a  little  uncouth  in  speech,  and  apt  to  utter 
impertinent  truths,  he  confesses  that  he  is  a  real 
John  Bull,  and  always  speaks  his  mind.  If  he 
now  and  then  flies  into  an  unreasonable  burst  of 
passion  about  trifles,  he  observes,  that  John  Bull 
is  a  choleric  old  blade,  but  then  his  passion  w 
over  in  a  moment,  and  he  bears  no  malice.  If 
he  betrays  a  coarseness  of  taste,  and  an  insensi 
bility  to  foreign  refinements,  he  thanks  heaven  for 
his  ignorance  —  he  is  a  plain  John  Bull,  and  has 
no  relish  for  frippery  and  knick-knacks.  His  very 
proneness  to  be  galled  by  strangers,  and  to  pa^ 


JOHN  BULL.  413 

extravagantly  for  absurdities,  is  excused  under  the 
plea  of  munificence  —  for  John  is  always  more 
generous  than  wise. 

Thus,  under  the  name  of  John  Bull,  he  will 
contrive  to  argue  every  fault  into  a  merit,  and 
will  frankly  convict  himself  of  being  the  honest- 
est  fellow  in  existence. 

However  little,  therefore,  the  character  may 
have  suited  in  the  first  instance,  it  has  gradually 
adapted  itself  to  the  nation,  or  rather  they  have 
adapted  themselves  to  each  other ;  and  a  stranger 
who  wishes  to  study  English  peculiarities,  may 
gather  much  valuable  information  from  the  innu 
merable  portraits  of  John  Bull,  as  exhibited  in 
the  windows  of  the  caricature-shops.  Still,  how 
ever,  he  is  one  of  those  fertile  humorists,  that 
are  continually  thro  wing  out  new  portraits,  and 
presenting  different  aspects  from  different  points 
of  view ;  and,  often  as  he  has  been  described,  I 
cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  give  a  slight  sketch 
of  him,  such  as  he  has  met  my  eye. 

John  Bull,  to  all  appearance,  is  a  plain,  down 
right  matter-of-fact  fellow,  with  much  less  of  poe 
try  about  him  than  rich  prose.  There  is  little 
of  romance  in  his  nature,  but  a  vast  deal  of  strong 
natural  feeling.  He  excels  in  humor  more  than 
in  wit ;  is  jolly  rather  than  gay ;  melancholy 
rather  than  morose  ;  can  easily  be  moved  to  a 
sudden  tear,  or  surprised  into  a  broad  laugh ;  but 
he  loathes  sentiment,  and  has  no  turn  for  light, 
pleasantry.  He  is  a  boon-companion,  if  you  allow 
him  to  have  his  humor,  and  to  talk  about  him 
self  arid  he  will  stand  by  a  friend  in  a  quarrel, 


414  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

with  life  and  purse,  however  soundly  be  may  ba 
cudgelled. 

In  this  last  respect,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  has  a 
propensity  to  be  somewhat  too  ready.  He  is  a 
busy-minded  personage,  who  thinks  not  merely 
for  himself  and  family,  but  for  all  the  country 
round,  and  is  most  generously  disposed  to  bo 
everybody's  champion,  lie  is  continually  volun 
teering  his  services  to  settle  his  neighbors'  affairs, 
and  takes  it  in  great  dudgeon  if  they  engage  in 
any  matter  of  consequence  without  asking  his 
advice ;  though  he  seldom  engages  in  any  friendly 
office  of  the  kind  without  finishing  by  getting  into 
a  squabble  with  all  parties,  and  then  railing  bit 
terly  at  their  ingratitude.  He  unluckily  took 
lessons  in  his  youth  in  the  noble  science  of  de 
fence,  and  having  accomplished  himself  in  the 
use  of  his  limbs  and  his  weapons,  and  become  a 
perfect  master  at  boxing  and  cudgel-play,  he  haa 
had  a  troublesome  life  of  it  ever  since.  He  can 
not  hear  of  a  quarrel  between  the  most  distant 
of  his  neighbors,  but  he  begins  incontinently  to 
fumble  with  the  head  of  his  cudgel,  and  consider 
whether  his  interest  or  honor  does  not  require  that 
he  should  meddle  in  the  broil.  Indeed  he  ha3 
extended  his  relations  of  pride  and  policy  so 
completely  over  the  whole  country,  that  no  eveot 
can  take  place,  without  infringing  some  of  his 
finely-spun  rights  and  dignities.  Couched  in  h« 
little  domain,  with  these  filaments  stretching  fortn 
in  every  direction,  he  is  like  some  choleric,  bot 
tle-bellied  old  spider,  who  has  woven  his  web 
over  a  whole  chamber,  so  that  a  fly  cannot  buzz, 


JOHN  BULL.  '  415 

nor  a  breeze  blow,  without  startling  his  repose, 
and  causing  him  to  sally  forth  wrathfully  from  Lia 
den. 

Though  really  a  good-hearted,  good-tempered 
old  fellow  at  bottom,  yet  he  is  singularly  fond  of 
being  in  the  midst  of  contention.  It  is  one  of 
his  peculiarities,  however,  that  he  only  relishes 
the  beginning  of  an  affray ;  he  always  goes  into 
a  fight  with  alacrity,  but  comes  out  of  it  grum 
bling  even  when  victorious ;  and  though  no  one 
fights  with  more  obstinacy  to  carry  a  contested 
point,  yet,  when  the  battle  is  over,  and  he  cornea 
to  the  reconciliation,  ho  is  so  much  taken  up  with 
the  mere  shaking  of  hands,  that  he  5s  apt  to  let 
his  antagonist  pocket  all  that  they  have  been 
quarrelling  about.  It  is  not,  therefore,  fighting 
that  he  ought  so  much  to  be  on  his  guard  against, 
as  making  friends.  It  is  difficult  to  cudgel  him 
out  of  a  farthing  ;  but  put  him  in  a  good-humor, 
and  you  may  bargain  him  out  of  all  the  money 
in  his  pocket.  He  is  like  a  stout  ship,  which 
will  weather  the  roughest  storm  uninjured,  but 
roll  its  masts  overboard  in  the  succeeding  calm. 

He  is  a  little  fond  of  playing  the  magninco 
abroad  ;  of  pulling  out  a  long  purse  ;  flinging  hia 
money  bravely  about  at  boxing  -  matches,  horse 
races,  cock-fights,  and  carrying  a  high  head  among 
tt  gentlemen  of  the  fancy ; "  but  immediately  after 
8ne  of  these  fits  of  extravagance  he  will  bo  taken 
with,  violent  qualms  of  economy  ;  stop  short  at 
the  most  trivial  expenditure ;  talk  desperately  of 
being  ruined  and  brought  upon  the  parish ;  and, 
in  such  moods,  will  not  pay  the  smallest  trades* 


416  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

man's  bill  without  violent  altercation.  He  is  14 
fact  the  most  punctual  and  discontented  paymastei 
in  the  world ;  drawing  his  coin  out  of  his  breeches- 
pocket  with  infinite  reluctance  ;  paying  to  the  ut~ 
termost  farthing,  but  accompanying  every  guinea 
with  a  growl. 

With  all  his  talk  of  economy,  however,  he  is  a 
bountiful  provider,  and  a  hospitable  housekeeper. 
His  economy  is  of  a  whimsical  kind,  its  chief 
object  being  to  devise  how  he  may  afford  to  be 
extravagant ;  for  he  will  begrudge  himself  a  beef 
steak  and  pint  of  port  one  day,  that  he  may  roast 
an  ox  whole,  broach  a  hogshead  of  ale,  and  treat 
all  his  neighbors  on  the  next. 

His  domestic  establishment  is  enormously  ex 
pensive  ;  not  so  much  from  any  great  outward 
parade,  as  from  the  great  consumption  of  solid 
beef  and  pudding ;  the  vast  number  of  followers 
he  feeds  and  clothes  ;  and  his  singular  disposition 
to  pay  hugely  for  small  services.  He  is  a  most 
tind  and  indulgent  master,  and,  provided  his  ser 
vants  humor  his  peculiarities,  flatter  his  vanity  a 
little  now  and  then,  and  do  not  peculate  grossly 
on  him  before  his  face,  they  may  manage  him  to 
perfection.  Everything  that  lives  on  him  seems  to 
thrive  and  grow  fat.  His  house-servanta  are  well 
paid,  and  pampered,  and  have  little  to  do.  Hi& 
horses  are  sleek  and  lazy,  and  prance  slowly  be- 
Tore  his  state  carriage;  and  his  house-dogs  sleep 
quietly  about  the  door,  and  will  hardly  bark  at  a 
house-breaker. 

His  family  mansion  is  an  old  castellated  manor- 
house,  gray  with  age,  and  of  a  most  venerable, 


•JOHN  BULL.  417 

though  weather-beaten  appearance.  It  has  been 
built  upon  no  regular  plan,  but  is  a  vast  accumu 
lation  of  pails,  erected  in  various  tastes  and  ages. 
The  centre  bears  evident  traces  of  Saxon  archi 
tecture,  and  is  as  solid  as  ponderous  stone  and  old 
English  oak  can  make  it.  Like  all  the  relics  of 
that  style,  it  is  full  of  obscure  passages,  intricate 
mazes,  and  dusky  chambers  ;  and  though  these 
have  been  partially  lighted  up  in  modern  days, 
yet  there  are  many  places  where  you  must  still 
grope  in  the  dark.  Additions  have  been  made  to 
the  original  edifice  from  time  to  time,  and  great 
alterations  have  taken  place ;  towers  and  battle 
ments  have  been  erected  during  wars  and  tu 
mults  ;  wings  built  in  time  of  peace ;  and  out 
houses,  lodges,  and  offices  run  up  according  to  the 
whim  or  convenience  of  different  generations,  un 
til  it  has  become  one  of  the  most  spacious,  ram 
bling  tenements  imaginable.  An  entire  wing  is 
taken  up  with  the  family  chapel,  a  reverend  pile, 
that  must  have  been  exceedingly  sumptuous,  and, 
indeed,  in  spite  of  having  been  altered  and  sim 
plified  at  various  periods,  has  still  a  look  of  solemn 
religious  pomp.  Its  walls  within  are  storied  with 
the  monuments  of  John's  ancestors ;  and  it  is 
enugly  fitted  up  with  soft  cushions  and  well-lined 
chairs,  where  such  of  his  family  as  are  inclined 
to  church  services  may  doze  comfortably  in  the 
discharge  of  their  duties. 

To  keep  up  this  chapel  has  cost  John  much 

money ;    but   lie    is  stanch    in    his  religion,  and 

piqued  in    his  zeal,  from  the    circumstance  that 

many  dissenting  chapels  have  been  erected  in  his 

27 


418  THE  SKETCH-BOO  A. 

vicinity,  and  several  of  his  neighbors,  with  whom 
he  has  had  quarrels,  are  strong  Papiits. 

To  do  the  duties  of  the  chapel  he  maintains, 
at  a  largo  expense,  a  pious  and  portly  family 
chaplain.  He  is  a  most  learned  and  decorous 
personage,  and  a  truly  well-bred  Christian,  who 
always  backs  the  old  gentleman  in  his  opinions, 
winks  discreetly  at  his  little  peccadilloes,  rebukes 
tho  children  when  refractory,  and  is  of  great  use 
in  exhorting  the  tenants  to  read  their  Bibles,  say 
then*  prayers,  and,  above  all,  to  pay  their  rents 
punctually  and  without  grumbling. 

The  family  apartments  are  in  a  very  antiquated 
taste,  somewhat  heavy,  and  often  inconvenient, 
but  full  of  the  solemn  magnificence  of  former 
times ;  fitted  up  with  rich  though  faded  tapestry, 
unwieldy  furniture,  and  loads  of  massy  gorgeous 
old  plate.  The  vast  fireplaces,  ample  kitchens, 
extensive  cellars,  and  sumptuous  banqueting  halls, 
all  speak  of  the  roaring  hospitality  of  days  of  yore, 
of  which  the  modern  festivity  at  the  manor-house 
is  but  a  shadow.  There  are,  however,  complete 
suites  of  rooms  apparently  deserted  and  time- 
worn  ;  and  towers  and  turrets  that  are  tottering 
to  decay ;  so  that  in  high  winds  there  is  danger 
of  their  tumbling  about  the  ears  of  the  houso« 
hold. 

John  has  frequently  been  advised  to  have  tho 
old  edifice  thoroughly  overhauled ;  and  to  havo 
some  of  the  useless  parts  pulled  down,  and  the 
others  strengthened  with  their  materials  ;  but  the 
old  gentleman  always  grows  testy  on  this  subject. 
He  swears  the  house  is  an  excellent  house  —  tliaf 


JOHN  BULL.  419 

it  is  tight  and  weather-proof,  and  not  to  be  ol^ken 
by  tempests  —  that  it  has  stood  for  several  hun 
dred  years,  and,  therefore,  is  not' likely  to  tumble 
down  now  —  that,  as  to  its  being  inconvenient, 
his  family  is  accustomed  to  the  inconveniences, 
and  would  not  be  comfortable  without  them  — — 
that,  as  to  its  unwieldy  size  and  irregular  con 
struction,  these  result  from  its  being  the  growth 
of  centuries,  and  being  improved  by  the  wisdom 
of  every  generation  —  that  an  old  family,  like  his, 
requires  a  large  house  to  dwell  in ;  new,  upstart 
families  may  live  in  modern  cottages  and  snug 
boxes  ;  but  an  old  English  family  should  inhabit 
an  old  English  manor-house.  If  you  point  out 
any  part  of  the  building  as  superfluous,  he  insists 
that  it  is  material  to  the  strength  or  decoration  of 
the  rest,  and  the  harmony  of  the  whole ;  and 
swears  that  the  parts  are  so  built  into  each  other, 
that,  if  you  pull  down  one,  you  run  the  risk  of 
having  the  whole  about  your  ears. 

The  secret  of  the  matter  is,  that  John  has 
great  disposition  to  protect  and  patronize.  Ho 
thinks  it  indispensable  to  the  dignity  of  an  ancient 
and  honorable  family  to  be  bounteous  in  its  ap 
pointments,  and  to  be  eaten  up  by  dependents ; 
and  so,  partly  from  pride  and  partly  from  kind' 
heartedness,  he  makes  it  a  rule  always  to  give 
shelter  and  maintenance  to  his  superannuated  ser 
vants. 

The  consequence  is,  that,  like  many  other  ven 
erable  family  establishments,  his  manor  is  encura* 
bered  by  old  retainers  whom  he  cannot  turn  off, 
and  an  old  style  which  he  cannot  lay  down.  His 


420  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

mansion  Is  like  a  great  hospital  of  invalids,  and 
with  all  its  mngni  tude,  is  not  a  whit  too  large  for 
its  inhabitants.  Not  a  nook  or  corner  but  is  of 
uso  in  housing  some  useless  personage.  Groups 
of  veteran  beef -eaters,  gouty  pensioners,  an<i 
retired  heroes  of  the  buttery  and  the  larder,  are 
Been  lolling  about  its  walls,  crawling  over  its 
lawns,  dozing  under  its  trees,  or  sunning  them 
selves  upon  the  benches  at  its  doors.  Every  office 
and  out-house  is  garrisoned  by  these  supernume 
raries  and  their  families  ;  for  they  are  amazingly 
prolific,  and  when  they  die  off,  are  sure  to  leavp 
John  a  legacy  of  hungry  mouths  to  be  provided 
for.  A  mattock  cannot  be  struck  against  the  most 
mouldering  tumble  -  down  tower,  but  out  pops, 
from  some  cranny  or  loop-hole,  the  gray  pate  of 
Borne  superannuated  hanger-on,  who  has  lived  at 
John's  expense  all  his  life,  and  makes  the  most 
grievous  outcry  at  their  pulling  down  the  roof 
from  over  the  head  of  a  worn-out  servant  of  the 
family.  This  is  an  appeal  that  John's  honest  heart 
never  can  withstand ;  so  that  a  man,  who  has 
faithfully  eaten  his  beef  and  pudding  all  Lis  life, 
is  sure  to  be  rewarded  with  a  pipe  and  tankard 
in  his  old  days. 

A  great  part  of  his  park,  also,  is  turned  into 
paddocks,  where  his  broken-down  chargers  are 
turned  loose  to  graze  undisturbed  for  the  remain 
der  of  their  existence,  —  a  worthy  example  of 
grateful  recollection,  wliich  if  some  of  lus  neigh 
bors  were  to  imitate,  would  not  be  to  their  dis 
credit.  Indeed,  it  is  one  of  his  great  pleasures 
to  point  out  these  old  steeds  to  his  visitors,  to 


-JOHN  BULL.  421 

dwell  on  their  good  qualities,  extol  their  pasi 
services,  aad  boast,  with  some  little  vainglory, 
of  the  perilous  adventures  and  hardy  exploits 
through  which  they  have  carried  liim. 

lie  is  given,  however,  to  indulge  his  veneration 
for  family  usages,  and  family  incumbrances.  to  a 
whimsical  extent.  His  manor  is  infested  by  gangs 
of  gypsies ;  yet  he  will  not  suffer  them  to  be 
driven  off,  because  they  have  infested  the  place 
time  out  of  mind,  and  been  regular  poachers  upon 
every  generation  of  the  family.  He  will  scarcely 
permit  a  dry  branch  to  be  lopped  from  the  great 
trees  that  surround  the  house,  lest  it  should  molest 
the  rooks,  that  have  bred  there  for  centuries.  Owls 
have  taken  possession  of  the  dove-cot ;  but  they 
are  hereditary  owls,  and  must  not  be  disturbed. 
Swallows  have  nearly  choked  up  every  chimney 
with  their  nests  ;  martins  build  in  every  frieze 
and  cornice  ;  crows  flutter  about  the  towers,  and 
perch  on  every  weathercock ;  and  old  gray-headed 
rats  may  be  seen  in  every  quarter  of  the  house, 
running  in  and  out  of  their  holes  undauntedly  in 
broad  daylight.  In  short,  John  has  such  a  rever 
ence  for  everything  that  has  been  long  in  th« 
family,  that  he  will  not  hear  even  of  abuses  being 
reformed,  because  they  are  good  old  family  abuses, 

All  these  whims  and  habits  have  concurred  wo- 
fully  to  drain  the  old  gentleman's  purse  ;  an«l  as 
he  prides  himself  on  punctuality  in  money  matters, 
and  wishes  to  maintain  his  credit  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  they  have  caused  him  great  perplexity  ic 
meeting  his  2ngagcments.  This,  too,  has  been 
increased  by  the  altercations  and  heart-burning* 


422  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

which  arc  continually  taking  place  in  his  family 
His  children  have  been  brought  up  to  different 
callings,  and  are  of  different  ways  of  thinking  ;  find 
as  they  have  always  been  allowed  to  speak  theii 
minds  freely,  they  do  not  fail  to  exercise  the  priv 
ilege  most  clamorously  in  the  present  posture  of 
his  affairs.  Some  stand  up  for  the  honor  of  the 
race,  and  are  clear  that  the  old  establishment 
should  be  kept  up  in  all  its  state,  whatever  may 
be  the  cost ;  others,  who  are  more  prudent  and 
considerate,  entreat  the  old  gentleman  to  retrench 
his  expenses,  and  to  put  his  whole  system  of 
housekeeping  on  a  more  moderate  footing.  He 
has,  indeed,  at  times,  seemed  inclined  to  listen  to 
their  opinions,  but  their  wholesome  advice  has 
been  completely  defeated  by  the  obstreperous  con 
duct  of  one  of  his  sons.  Tin's  is  a  noisy,  rattle- 
pated  fellow,  of  rather  low  habits,  who  neglects 
his  business  to  frequent  ale-houses,  is  the  orator 
of  village  clubs,  and  a  complete  oracle  among  the 
poorest  of  liis  father's  tenants.  No  sooner  does 
he  hear  any  of  his  brothers  mention  reform  or 
retrenchment,  than  up  he  jumps,  takes  the  words 
out  of  their  mouths,  and  roars  out  for  an  overturn. 
When  his  tongue  is  once  going,  nothing  can  stop 
it  He  rants  about  the  room ;  hectors  the  old 
man  about  his  spendthrift  practices  ;  ridicules  hia 
tastes  and  pursuits  ;  insists  that  he  shall  turn  the 
old  servants  out-of-doors  ;  give  the  broken  -down 
horses  to  the  hounds  ;  send  the  fat  chaplain  pack 
ing,  and  take  a  field-preacher  in  his  place,  —  nay, 
that  the  whole  family  mansion  shall  be  levelled 
with  the  ground,  and  a  plain  one  of  brick  and 


JOHN  BULL.  423 

mortar  buiit  in  its  place.  He  rails  at  every  social 
entertainment  and  family  festivity,  and  skulka 
away  growling  to  the  ale  -  house  whenever  an 
equipage  drives  up"  to  the  door.  Though  con- 

tstantly  complaining  of  the  emptiness  of  his  purse, 
yet  he  scruples  not  to  spend  all  his  pocket-money 
in  these  tavern  convocations,  and  even  runs  up 
scores  for  the  liquor  over  which  he  preaches  about 
his  father's  extravagance. 

It  may  readily  be  imagined  how  little  such 
thwarting  agrees  with  the  old  cavalier's  fiery  tem 
perament.  He  has  become  so  irritable,  from  re 
peated  crossings,  that  the  mere  mention  of  re 
trenchment  or  reform  is  a  signal  for  a  brawl  be 
tween  him  and  the  tavern  oracle.  As  the  latter 
is  too  sturdy  and  refractory  for  paternal  discipline, 
having  grown  out  of  all  fear  of  the  cudgel,  they 
have  frequent  scenes  of  wordy  warfare,  which  at 
times  run  so  high,  that  John  is  fain  to  call  in  the 
aid  of  his  son  Tom,  an  officer  who  has  served 
abroad,  but  is  at  present  living  at  home,  on  half- 
pay.  This  last  is  sure  to  stand  by  the  old  gen 
tleman,  right  or  wrong ;  likes  nothing  so  much 
as  a  racketing,  roistering  life ;  and  is  ready  at  a 
wink  or  nod,  to  out  sabre,  and  nourish  it  over  the 
orator's  head,  if  he  dares  to  array  himself  against 
paternal  authority. 

These  family  dissensions,  as  usual,  have  got 
abroad,  and  are  rare  food  for  scandal  in  John'g 
neighborhood.  People  begin  to  look  wise,  and 
shake  their  heads,  whenever  his  affairs  arc  men 
tioned.  They  all  "hope  that  matters  are  not  so 
bad  with  him  as  represented ;  but  when  a  man's 


424  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

own  children  begin  to  rail  at  his  extravagance, 
things  must  be  badly  managed.  They,  understand 
he  is  mortgaged  over  head  and  ears,  and  is  con 
tinually  dabbling  with  money-lenders.  He  id 
certainly  an  open-handed  old  gentleman,  but  they 
fear  he  has  lived  too  fast ;  indeed,  they  never 
knew  any  good  come  of  this  fondness  for  hunting, 
racing,  revelling,  and  prize-fighting.  In  short,  Mr. 
Bull's  estate  is  a  very  fine  one,  and  has  been  in 
the  family  a  long  time;  but,  for  all  that,  they 
have  known  many  finer  estates  come  to  the  ham 
mer." 

What  is  worst  of  all,  is  the  effect  which  these 
pecuniary  embarrassments  and  domestic  feuds 
have  had  on  the  poor  man  himself.  Instead  of 
that  jolly  round  corporation,  and  smug  rosy  face, 
which  he  used  to  present,  ho  has  of  late  become 
as  shrivelled  and  shrunk  as  a  frost-bitten  apple. 
His  scarlet  gold  -  laced  waistcoat,  which  bellied 
out  so  bravely  in  those  prosperous  days  when  he 
sailed  before  the  wind,  now  hangs  loosely  about 
him  like  a  mainsail  in  a  calm.  His  leather 
breeches  are  all  in  folds  and  wrinkles,  and  appar 
ently  have  much  ado  to  hold  up  th«*  boots  that 
yawn  on  both  sides  of  his  once  sturdy  legs. 

Instead  of  strutting  about  as  formerly,  with  his 
three-cornered  hat  on  one  side ;  nourishing  his 
cudgel,  and  bringing  it  down  every  momei.t  with 
a  hearty  thump  upon  the  ground  ;  looking  every 
one  sturdily  in  the  face,  and  trolling  out  a  stave 
of  a  catch  or  a  drinking  song  ;  he  now  goes  about 
whistling  thoughtfully  to  himself,  with  his  hend 
drooping  down,  his  cudgel  tucked  under  his  arra< 


JOHN  BULL.  425 

and  his  hands  thrust  to  the  bottom  of  his  breeches- 
pockets,  which  are  evidently  empty. 

Such  is  the  plight  of  honest  John  Bull  at  pres. 
ent;  yet  for  all  this  the  old  fellow's  spirit  is  a* 
tall  and  as  gallant  as  ever.  If  you  drop  the  least 
expression  of  sympathy  or  concern,  he  takes  fire 
in  an  instant ;  swears  that  he  is  the  richest  and 
stoutest  fellow  in  the  country  ;  talks  of  laying  out 
large  sums  to  adorn  his  house  or  buy  another  es 
tate  ;  and  with  a  valiant  swagger  and  grasping 
of  his  cudgel,  longs  exceedingly  to  have  another 
bout  at  quarter-staff. 

Though  there  may  be  something  rather  whim 
sical  in  all  this,  yet  I  confess  I  cannot  look  upon 
John's  situation  without  strong  feelings  of  interest 
With  all  his  odd  humors  and  obstinate  prejudices, 
he  is  a  sterling-hearted  old  blade.  He  may  not 
be  so  wonderfully  fine  a  fellow  as  he  thinks  him 
self,  but  he  is  at  least  twice  as  good  as  his  neigh 
bors  represent  him.  His  virtues  are  all  his  own ; 
all  plain,  homebred,  and  unaffected.  His  very 
faults  smack  of  the  raciness  of  his  good  qualities. 
His  extravagance  savors  of  liis  generosity ;  hia 
quarrelsomeness  of  his  courage  *,  his  credulity  of 
his  open  faith  ;  his  vanity  of  lr.8  pride  ;  and  hia 
bluntness  of  his  sincerity.  The},  are  all  the  re 
dundancies  of  a  rich  and  liberal  character,  lie 
is  like  his  own  oak,  rough  without,  J»nt  sound  un$ 
solid  within ;  whose  bark  abounds  with  QXCTG^ 
ccnccs  in  proportion  to  the  growth  and  grandeur 
of  the  timber  ;  and  whose  branches  make  a  fear 
ful  groaning  and  murmurmu  in  the  least  storm, 
from  their  very  magnitude  and  luxuriance.  There 


426  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

is  something,  too,  in  the  appearance  of  his  old 
family  mansion  that  is  extremely  poetical  and 
picturesque ;  and,  as  long  as  it  can  be  rendered 
comfortably  habitable,  I  should  almost  tremble  to 
pee  it  meddled  with,  during  the  present  conflict 
of  tastes  and  opinions.  Some  of  his  advisers  aro 
DO  doubt  good  architects,  that  might  be  of  ser 
vice  ;  but  many,  I  fear,  are  mere  levellers,  who, 
when  they  had  once  got  to  work  with  their  mat 
tocks  on  this  venerable  edifice,  would  never  stop 
until  they  had  brought  it  to  the  ground,  and  per 
haps  buried  themselves  among  the  ruins.  AH 
that  I  wish  is,  that  John's  present  troubles  may 
teach  him  more  prudence  in  future ;  —  that  he 
may  cease  to  distress  his  mind  about  other  peo 
ple's  affairs ;  that  he  may  give  up  the  fruitless 
Lttempt  to  promote  the  good  of  his  neighbors, 
and  the  peace  and  happiness  of  the  world,  by  dint 
of  the  cudgel ;  that  he  may  remain  quietly  at 
home ;  gradually  get  his  bouse  into  repair  ;  culti 
vate  his  rich  estate  according  to  his  fancy ;  hus 
band  his  income  —  if  he  thinks  proper  ;  bring  his 
unruly  children  into  order  —  if  he  can ;  renew 
the  jovial  scenes  of  ancient  prosperity ;  and  long 
enjoy,  on  his  paternal  lands,  a  green,  an  honor 
ablo,  and  a  merry  old  age. 


THE   PRIDE   OF   THE   VILLAGE 


May  no  wolfe  howle :  no  screech  owle  stir 

A  wing  about  thy  sepulchre ! 

No  boysterous  winds  or  stormes  come  hither, 

To  starve  or  wither 

Thy  soft  sweet  earth !  but,  like  a  spring, 
Love  kept  it  ever  flourishing. 

HERIUCK. 

|N  the  course  of  an  excursion  through  one 
of  the  remote  counties  of  England,  I 
had  struck  into  one  of  those  cross-roads 
that  lead  through  the  more  secluded  parts  of  the 
country,  and  stopped  one  afternoon  at  a  village, 
the  situation  of  which  was  beautifully  rural  and 
retired.  There  was  an  air  of  primitive  simplicity 
about  its  inhabitants,  not  to  be  found  in  the  vil 
lages  which  lie  on  the  great  coach-roads.  I  deter 
mined  to  pass  the  night  there,  and,  having  take^ 
an  early  dinner,  strolled  out  to  enjoy  the  neigh 
boring  scenery. 

My  ramble,  as  is  usually  the  case  with  travel* 
lers,  soon  led  me  to  the  church,  which  stood  at  a 
little  distance  from  the  village.  Indeed,  it  w;in 
an  object  of  some  curiosity,  its  old  tower  being 
completely  overrun  with  ivy,  so  that  only  h«re 
and  there  a  jutting  buttress,  an  angle  of  gray 
wall,  or  a  fantastically  carved  ornament,  peered 
through  the  verdant  covering.  It  was  a  lovelj 

427 


428  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

evening.  The  early  part  of  the  day  hal  beer  darh 
and  showery,  but  in  the  afternoon  it  had  cleared 
up  ;  and  though  sullen  clouds  still  hung  overhead, 
yet  there  was  a  broad  tract  of  golden  sky  in  the 
west,  from  which  the  setting  sun  gleamed  through 
the  dripping  leaves,  and  lit  up  all  nature  with  t 
melancholy  smile.  It  seemed  like  the  partiu^ 
hour  of  a  good  Christian,  smiling  on  the  sins  ani» 
sorrows  of  the  world,  and  giving,  in  the  serenity 
of  his  decline,  an  assurance  that  he  ^ill  rise 
again  in  glory. 

I  had  seated  myself  on  a  half-  sunken  tomb 
stone,  and  was  musing,  as  one  is  apt  to  do  at  this 
sober-thoughted  hour,  on  past  scenes  and  early 
friends,  —  on  those  who  were  distant  and  those 
who  were  dead,  —  and  indulging  in  that  kind  of 
melancholy  fancying  which  has  in  it  something 
sweeter  even  than  pleasure.  Every  now  and  then 
the  stroke  of  a  bell  from  the  neighboring  tower 
fell  on  my  ear ;  its  tones  were  in  unison  with  the 
scene,  and,  instead  of  jarring,  chimed  in  with  m^ 
feelings  ;  and  it  was  some  time  before  I  recol 
lected  that  it  must  be  tolling  the  knell  of  some 
new  tenant  of  the  tomb. 

Presently  I  saw  a  funeral  train  moving  across 
the  village  green ;  it  wound  slowly  along  a  lane ; 
was  lost,  and  reappeared  through  the  breaks  of 
the  hedges,  until  it  passed  the  place  where  I  was 
Bitting.  The  pall  was  supported  by  young  girls, 
dressed  in  white ;  and  another,  about  the  age  of' 
seventeen,  walked  before,  bearing  a  chaplet  of 
white  flowers :  a  token  that  the  deceased  was  a 
young  and  unmarried  female.  The  corpse  was 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE   VILLA  GE.          420 

followed  by  the  parents.  They  were  a  venerable 
couple  of  the  better  order  of  peasantry.  The 
father  seemed  to  repress  his  feelings ;  but  hw 
Uxed  eye,  contracted  brow,  and  deeply  furrowed 
face  showed  the  struggle  that  was  passing  within,. 
His  wife  hung  on  his  arm,  and  wept  aloud  with 
the  convulsive  bursts  of  a  mother's  sorrow. 

I  followed  the  funeral  into  the  church.  Tha 
bier  was  placed  in  the  centre-aisle,  and  the  chap- 
lot  of  white  flowers,  with  a  pair  of  white  gloves, 
were  hung  over  the  seat  which  the  deceased  had 
occupied. 

Every  one  knows  the  soul-subduing  pathos  of 
the  funeral  service ;  for  who  is  so  fortunate  as 
never  to  have  followed  some  .one  he  has  loved  to 
the  tomb  ?  but  when  performed  over  the  remains 
of  innocence  and  beauty,  thus  laid  low  in  the 
bloom  of  existence,  what  can  be  more  affecting  ? 
At  that  simple  but  most  solemn  consignment  of 
the  body  to  the  grave  —  "  Earth  to  earth  —  ashea 
to  ashes — dust  to  dust!"  —  the  tears  of  the 
youthful  companions  of  the  deceased  flowed  un 
restrained.  The  father  still  seemed  to  struggle 
with  his  feelings,  and  to  comfort  himself  with  t.bc 
assurance  that  the  dead  are  blessed  which  dio  iij 
the  Lord ;  but  the  mother  only  thought  of  her 
child  as  a  flower  of  the  field  cut  down  and 
withered  in  the  midst  of  its  sweetness ;  she  was 
like  Rachel,  "  mourning  over  her  children,  and 
would  not  be  comforted." 

On  returning  to  the  inn,  I  learned  the  whole 
»tory  of  the  deceased.  It  was  a  simple  one,  and 
inch  as  has  often  been  told.  She  had  been  the 


430  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


and  pride  of  the  village.  Her  father  Lad 
once  been  an  opulent  farmer,  but  was  reduced  in 
circumstances.  This  was  an  only  child,  and 
brought  up  entirely  at  home,  in  the  simplicity  of 
rural  life.  She  had  been  the  pupil  of  the  village 
pastor,  the  favorite  lamb  of  his  little  flock.  Tho 
good  man  watched  over  her  education  with  pater 
nal  care  ;  —  it  was  limited,  and  suitable  to  the 
epheve  in  which  she  was  to  move  ;  for  he  only 
sought  to  make  her  an  ornament  to  her  station  in 
life,  not  to  raise  her  above  it.  The  tenderness 
and  indulgence  of  her  parents,  and  the  exemption 
from  all  ordinary  occupations,  had  fostered  a  nat 
ural  grace  and  delicacy  of  character,  that  accorded 
with  the  fragile  loveliness  of  her  form.  She  ap 
peared  like  some  tender  plant  of  the  garden, 
blooming  accidentally  amid  the  hardier  natives  of 
the  fields. 

The  superiority  of  her  charms  was  felt  and  ac 
knowledged  by  her  companions,  but  without  envy  ; 
for  it  was  surpassed  by  the  unassuming  gentleness 
and  winning  kindness  of  her  manners.  It  migh* 
be  truly  said  of  her,  — 

'  This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass,  that  ever 
Ran  on  the  green-sward;  nothing  she  does  or  seems 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself; 
Too  noble  for  this  place." 

The  village  was  one  of  those  sequestered  spots 
wliich  still  retain  some  vestiges  of  old  English 
customs.  It  had  its  rural  festivals  and  holiday 
pastimes,  and  still  kept  up  some  faint  observance 
of  the  once  popular  rites  of  May.  These,  indeed, 
ha4  been  promoted  by  its  present  pastor,  \vho  was 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLA  GE.         431 

a  lover  of  old  customs,  and  one  of  those  simple 
Christians  that  think  their  mission  fulfilled  by 
promoting  joy  on  earth  and  good-will  among  man 
kind.  Under  his  auspices  the  May-pole  stood  from 
year  to  year  in  the  centre  of  the  village  green 
on  May-day  it  was  decorated  with  garlands  ami 
(streamers  ;  and  a  queen  or  lady  of  the  May  was 
appointed,  as  in  former  times,  to  preside  at  the 
sports,  and  distribute  the  prizes  and  rewards. 
The  picturesque  situation  of  the  village,  and  the 
fancifulness  of  its  rustic  fetes,  would  often  attract 
the  notice  of  casual  visitors.  Among  these,  on 
one  May -day,  was  a  young  officer,  whose  regi 
ment  had  been  recently  quartered  in  the  neigh 
borhood.  He  was  charmed  with  the  native  taste 
that  pervaded  this  village  pageant ;  but,  above 
all,  with  the  dawning  loveliness  of  the  queen  of 
May.  It  was  the  village  favorite,  who  was 
crowned  with  flowers,  and  blushing  and  smiling 
in  all  the  beautiful  confusion  of  girlish  diffidence 
and  delight.  The  artlessness  of  rural  habits  en 
abled  him  readily  to  make  her  acquaintance  ;  he 
gradually  won  his  way  into  her  intimacy;  and 
paid  his  court  to  her  in  that  unthinking  way  in 
which  young  officers  are  too  apt  to  trifle  with  rus 
tic  simplicity. 

There  was  nothing  in  his  advances  to  startle 
or  alarm.  He  never  even  talked  of  love :  but 
there  are  modes  of  making  it  more  eloquent  than 
language,  and  which  convey  it  subtilely  and  irre 
sistibly  to  the  heart.  The  beam  of  the  eye,  the 
tone  of  voice,  the  thousand  tendernesses  which 
emanate  from  every  word,  and  look,  and  action,— 


132  THE  SKETCH. BOOK. 

these  form  the  true  eloquence  of  love,  and  can 
always  be  felt  and  understood,  but  never  de«* 
scribed.  Can  we  wonder  that  they  should  readily 
win  a  heart,  young,  guileless,  and  susceptible  ? 
As  to  her,  she  loved  almost  unconsciously ;  she 
scarcely  inquired  what  was  the  growing  passion 
lhat  was  absorbing  every  thought  and  feeling,  or 
what  were  to  be  its  consequences.  She,  indeed, 
looked  not  to  the  future.  When  present,  his  looks 
and  words  occupied  her  whole  attention  ;  when 
absent,  she  thought  but  of  what  had  passed  at 
their  recent  interview.  She  would  wander  with 
him  through  the  green  lanes  and  rural  scenes  of 
the  vicinity,  lie  taught  her  to  see  new  beauties 
in  nature;  he  talked  in  the  language  of  polite 
and  cultivated  life,  and  breathed  into  her  ear  the 
witcheries  of  romance  and  poetry. 

Perhaps  there  could  not  have  been  a  passion, 
between  the  sexes,  more  pure  than  this  innocent 
girl's.  The  gallant  figure  of  her  youthful  admirer, 
and  the  splendor  of  his  military  attire,  might  at 
first  have  charmed  her  eye  ;  but  it  was  not  these 
that  had  captivated  her  heart.  Her  attachment 
had  something  in  it  of  idolatry.  She  looked  up 
to  him  as  to  a  being  of  a  superior  order.  She 
felt  in  his  society  the  enthusiasm  of  a  mind  natu 
rally  delicate  and  poetical,  and  now  first  awakened 
to  a  keen  perception  of  the  beautiful  and  grand. 
Ot  tl  *  sordid  distinctions  of  rank  and  fortune  she 
thought  nothing;  it  was  the  difference  of  intellect, 
of  demeanor,  of  manners,  from  those  of  the  rustic 
society  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed,  that 
elevated  him  in  her  opinion.  She  would  listen 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE.         483 

to  him  with  charmed  ear  and  downcast  look  of 
mute  delight,  and  her  cheek  would  mantle  with 
enthusiasm  ;  or  if  ever  she  ventured  a  shy  glance 
of  timid  admiration,  it  was  as  quickly  withdrawn, 
and  she  would  sigh  and  blush  at  the  idea  of  her 
comparative  unworthiness. 

Her  lover  was  equally  impassioned ;  but  his 
passion  was  mingled  with  feelings  of  a  coarser 
nature.  He  had  begun  the  connection  in  levity ; 
for  he  had  often  heard  his  brother  officers  boast 
of  their  Tillage  conquests,  and  thought  some  tri 
umph  of  the  kind  necessary  to  his  reputation  as 
a  man  of  spirit.  But  he  was  too  full  of  youthful 
fervor.  His  heart  had  not  yet  been '  rendered 
sufficiently  cold  and  selfish  by  a  wandering  and  a 
dissipated  life :  it  caught  fire  from  the  very  flame 
it  sought  to  kindle  ;  and  before  he  was  aware  of 
the  nature  of  his  situation,  he  became  really  in 
love. 

What  was  he  to  do  ?  There  were  the  old  ob 
stacles  which  so  incessantly  occur  in  these  heed 
less  attachments.  His  rank  in  life  —  the  preju 
dices  of  titled  connections  —  his  dependence  upon 
a  proud  and  unyielding  father  —  all  forbade  him 
to  think  of  matrimony :  —  but  when  he  looked 
down  upon  this  innocent  being,  so  tender  and 
confiding,  there  was  a  purity  in  her  manners,  a 
blamelessness  in  her  life,  and  a  beseeching  mod 
esty  in  her  looks,  that  awed  down  every  licentious 
feeling.  In  vain  did  he  try  to  fortify  himself  by 
a  thousand  heartless  examples  of  men  of  fashion, 
and  to  chill  the  glow  of  generous  sentiment  with 
that  cold  derisive  levity  with  which  he  had  heard 


434  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

them  talk  of  female  virtue  :  whenever  he  carag 
into  her  presence,  she  was  still  surrounded  by 
that  mysterious  but  impassive  charm  of  Virgin 
purity  in  whose  hallowed  sphere  no  guilty  thought 
can  live. 

The  sudden  arrival  of  orders  for  the  regiment 
to  repair  to  the  continent  completed  the  confusion 
of  his  mind.  lie  remained  for  a  short  time  in  a 
state  of  the  most  painful  irresolution  ;  he  hesitated 
to  communicate  the  tidings,  until  the  day  for 
marching  was  at  hand ;  when  he  gave  her  the 
intelligence  in  the  course  of  an  evening  ramble. 

The  idea  of  parting  had  never  before  occurred 
to  her.  It  broke  in  at  once  upon  her  dream  of 
felicity  ;  she  looked  upon  it  as  a  sudden  and  in 
surmountable  evil,  and  wept  with  the  guileless 
simplicity  of  a  child.  He  drew  her  to  his  bosom, 
and  kissed  the  tears  from  her  soft  cheek  ;  nor  did 
he  meet  with  a  repulse,  for  there  are  moments  of 
mingled  sorrow  and  tenderness,  which  hallow  the 
caresses  of  affection.  He  was  naturally  impetu 
ous  ;  and  the  sight  of  beauty,  apparently  yielding 
in  his  arms,  the  confidence  of  his  power  over  her, 
and  the  dread  of  losing  her  forever,  all  conspired 
to  overwhelm  his  better  feelings,  —  he  ventured 
to  propose  that  she  should  leave  her  home,  and 
be  the  companion  of  his  fortunes. 

He  was  quite  a  novice  in  seduction,  and 
blushed  and  faltered  at  his  own  baseness  ;  but  so 
innocent  of  mind  was  his  intended  victim,  that 
ehe  was  at  first  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  his  mean- 
ing ;  and  why  she  should  leave  her  native  village^ 
and  the  humble  roof  of  her  parents.  When  al 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLAGE.         435 

last  the  nature  of  his  proposal  flashed  upon  her 
puro  mind,  the  effect  was  withering.  She  did  not 
woep  —  she  did  not  break  forth  into  reproach  — 
she  said  not  a  word  —  but  she  shrunk  back 
aghast  as  from  a  viper ;  gave  him  a  look  of  an 
guish  that  pierced  to  his  very  soul ;  and,  clasping 
her  hands  in  agony,  fled,  as  if  for  refuge,  to  he/ 
father's  cottage. 

The  officer  retired,  confounded,  humiliated,  and 
repentant.  It  is  uncertain  what  might  have  been 
the  result  of  the  conflict  of  his  feelings,  had  not 
his  thoughts  been  diverted  by  the  bustle  of  de 
parture.  New  scenes,  new  pleasures,  and  new 
companions  soon  dissipated  his  self-reproach,  and 
stilled  his  tenderness ;  yet,  amidst  the  stir  of 
camps,  the  revelries  of  garrisons,  the  array  of 
armies,  and  even  the  din  of  battles,  his  thoughts 
would  sometimes  steal  back  to  the  scenes  of  rural 
quiet  and  village  simplicity  —  the  white  cottage  — • 
the  footpath  along  the  silver  brook  and  up  the 
hawthorn  hedge,  and  the  little  village  maid  loiter 
ing  along  it,  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  listening  to 
him  with  eyes  beaming  with  unconscious  affection. 

The  shock  which  the  poor  girl  had  received, 
in  the  destruction  of  all  her  ideal  world,  had  in 
deed  been  cruel.  Faintings  and  hysterics  had  at 
first  shaken  her  tender  frame,  and  were  succeeded 
by  a  settled  and  pining  melancholy.  She  had 
teheld  from  her  window  the  march  of  the  depuit- 
ing  troops.  She  had  seen  her  faithless  lover 
borne  oil',  as  if  in  triumph,  amidst  the  sound  of 
drum  and  trumpet,  and  the  pomp  of  arms.  She 
•trained  a  last  aching  gaze  after  him,  as  the 


436  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

morning  ,jun  glittered  about  his  figure,  and  hh 
plume  waved  in  the  breeze  ;  he  passed  away  like 
a  bright  vision  from  her  sight,  and  left  her  all  in 
darkness. 

It  would  bo  trite  to  dwell  on  the  particulars 
of  her  after-story.  It  was,  like  other  tales  of 
love,  melancholy.  She  avoided  society,  and  wan 
dered  oui  alone  in  the  walks  she  had  most  fre 
quented  with  her  lover.  She  sought,  like  the 
stricken  deer,  to  weep  in  silence  and  loneliness, 
and  brood  over  the  barbed  sorrow  that  rankled  in 
her  soul.  Sometimes  she  would  be  seen  late  of 
an  evening  sitting  in  the  porch  of  the  village 
church ;  and  the  milkmaids,  returning  from  the 
fields,  would  now  and  then  overhear  her  singing 
some  plaintive  ditty  in  the  hawthorn-walk.  She 
became  fervent  in  her  devotions  at  church  ;  and 
as  the  old  people  saw  her  approach,  so  wasted 
away,  yet  with  a  hectic  bloom,  and  that,  hallowed 
air  which  melancholy  diffuses  round  the  form, 
they  would  make  way  for  her,  as  for  something 
spiritual,  and,  looking  after  her,  would  shake  their 
heads  in  gloomy  foreboding. 

She  felt  a  conviction  that  she  was  hastening  to 
(he  tomb,  but  looked  forward  to  it  as  a  place  of 
rest.  The  silver  cord  that  had  bound  her  to  ex 
istence  was  loosed,  and  there  seemed  to  bo  no 
more  pleasure  under  the  sun.  If  ever  her  gentle 
bosom  had  entertained  resentment  against  b.er 
lover,  i(  was  extinguished.  She  was  in<  apablo 
of  angry  passions  ;  and  in  a  moment  of  saddened 
tenderness  she  penned  him  a  farewell  letter.  Il 
wa?  couched  in  the  simplest  language,  but  touch- 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  VILLA  GE.         43? 

ing  from  its  very  simplicity.  She  told  him  thai 
she  was  dying,  and  did  not  conceal  from  him  that 
his  conduct  was  the  cause.  She  even  depicted 
the  sufferings  which  she  had  experienced ;  but 
concluded  with  saying  that  she  could  not  die  in 
peace,  until  she  had  sent  him  her  forgiveness  and 
her  blessing. 

By  degrees  her  strength  declined ;  she  could 
no  longer  leave  the  cottage.  She  could  only  tot 
ter  to  the  window,  where,  propped  up  in  her 
chair,  it  was  her  enjoyment  to  sit  ail  day  and 
look  out  upon  the  landscape.  Still  she  uttered 
no  complaint,  nor  imparted  to  any  one  the  mal 
ady  that  was  preying  on  her  heart.  She  never 
even  mentioned  her  lover's  name  ;  but  would  lay 
her  head  on  her  mother's  bosom  and  weep  in  si 
lence.  Her  poor  parents  hung,  in  mute  anxiety, 
over  this  fading  blossom  of  their  hopes,  still  flat 
tering  themselves  that  it  might  again  revive  to 
freshness,  and  that  the  bright  unearthly  bloom 
which  sometimes  flushed  her  cheek  might  be  the 
promise  of  returning  health. 

In  this  way  she  was  seated  between  them  one 
Sunday  afternoon;  her  hands  were  clasped  ID 
theirs,  the  lattice  was  thrown  open,  and  the  soft 
air  that  stole  in  brought  with  it  the  fragrance  of 
the  clustering  honeysuckle  which  her  own  handa 
had  trained  round  the  window. 

Her  father  had  just  been  reading  a  chapter  in 
the  Bible ;  it  spoke  of  the  vanity  of  worldly 
things,  and  of  the  joys  of  heaven  ;  it  seemed  to 
Uave  diffused  comfort  and  serenity  through  her 
oos- >m.  Her  eye  was  fixed  on  the  distant  village 


438  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

church ;  the  bell  had  tolled  for  evening  service 
the  last  villager  was  lagging  into  the  porch 
and  everything  had  sunk  into  that  hallowed  still 
ness  peculiar  to  the  day  of  rest.  Her  parents 
were  gazing  on  her  with  yearning  hearts.  Sick 
ness  and  sorrow,  which  pass  so  roughly  over 
some  faces,  had  given  to  hers  the  expression  of 
a  seraph's.  A  tear  trembled  in  her  soft  blue 
eye.  — Was  she  thinking  of  her  faithless  lov 
er  ?  —  or  were  her  thoughts  wandering  to  that 
distant  churchyard  into  whose  bosom  she  might 
soon  bo  gathered  ? 

Suddenly  the  clang  of  hoofs  was  heard  —  a 
horseman  galloped  to  the  cottage  —  he  dismounted 
before  the  window  —  the  poor  girl  gave  a  faint 
exclamation,  and  sunk  back  in  her  chair :  it  was 
her  repentant  lover  !  He  rushed  into  the  house, 
and  ilew  to  clasp  her  to  his  bosom ;  but  her 
wasted  form  —  her  deathlike  countenance  —  so 
wan,  yet  so  lovely  in  its  desolation  —  smote  him 
to  the  soul,  and  he  threw  himself  in  agony  at  her 
feet.  She  was  too  faint  to  rise  —  she  attempted 
to  extend  her  trembling  hand  —  her  lips  moved 
as  if  she  spoke,  but  no  word  was  articulated  — 
she  looked  down  upon  him  with  a  smile  of  unut- 
fcerable  tenderness  —  and  closed  her  eyes  forever ! 

Such  are  the  particulars  which  I  gathered  of 
(his  village  story.  They  are  but  scanty,  and  I  na 
conscious  have  little  novelty  to  recommend  them. 
In  the  present  rage  also  for  strange  incident  and 
high-seasoned  narrative,  they  may  appear  trite  and 
insignificant,  but  thoy  interested  me  strongly  al 
the  time ;  and,  taken  in  connection  with  the  af 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THR   VILLA  GE.         439 

felting  ceremony  which  I  had  just  witnessed,  left 
a  deeper  impression  on  my  mind  than  many  cir 
cumstances  of  a  more  striking  nature.  I  have 
passed  through  the  place  since,  and  visited  the 
church  again,  from  a  better  motive  than  mere  cu 
riosity.  It  was  a  wintry  evening ;  the  trees  were 
stripped  of  their  foliage ;  the  churchyard  looked 
caked  and  mournful,  and  the  wind  rustled  coldly 
through  the  dry  grass.  Evergreens,  however,  had 
been  planted  about  the  grave  of  the  village  favor 
ite,  and  osiers  were  bent  over  it  to  keep  the  turf 
uninjured. 

The  church-door  was  open,  and  I  stepped  in. 
There  hung  the  chaplet  of  flowers  and  the  gloves, 
as  on  the  day  of  the  funeral ;  the  flowers  were 
withered,  it  is  true,  but  care  seemed  to  have  been 
taken  that  no  dust  should  soil  their  whiteness.  I 
have  seen  many  monuments,  where  art  has  ex 
hausted  its  powers  to  awaken  the  sympathy  of  the 
spectator,  but  I  have  met  with  none  that  spoke 
more  touchingly  to  my  heart  than  this  simple  but 
delicate  memento  of  departed  innocence 


THE    ANGLER, 


This  day  dame  Nature  seem'd  in  lovs, 

The  lusty  sap  began  to  move, 

Fresh  juice  did  stir  th'  embracing1  vines. 

And  birds  had  drawn  their  valentines. 

The  jealous  trout  that  low  did  lie, 

Rose  at  a  well-dissembled  flie. 

There  stood  my  friend,  with  patient  skill, 

Attending  of  his  trembling  quill. 

SIR  H.  WOTTOR. 


T  is  said  that  manj 
an  unlucky  urchin 
is  induced  to  run 
away  from  his  fam 
ily,  and  betake  him 
self  to  a  seafaring 
life,  from  reading 
the  history  of  Rob 
inson  Crusoe ;  and 
I  suspect  that,  in 
like  manner,  many 
of  those  worthy  gen- 


! 


tlemen  who  are  giv 
en  to  haunt  the  sides 
of  pastoral  streams,  with  angle-reds  in  hand,  may 
trace  the  origin  of  their  passion  to  the  sed active 
pages  of  honest  Izaak  Walton.  1  recollect  study 
ing  his  "  Complete  Angler  "  several  years  since, 
in  company  with  a  knot  of  friend*  >n  America 
440 


THE  ANGLER.  441 

and  moreover  that  we  were  all  completely  bitter; 
with  the  angling  mania.  It  was  early  in  the 
year ;  but  as  soon  as  the  weather  was  auspicious 
and  that  the  spring  began  to  melt  into  the  verge 
of  summer,  we  took  rod  in  hand  and  sallied  into 
the  country,  as  stark  mad  as  was  ever  Don  Quix 
ote  from  reading  books  of  chivalry. 

One  of  our  party  had  equalled  the  Den  in  the 
fulness  of  his  equipments  ;  being  attired  cap-a-pie 
for  the  enterprise.  He  wore  a  broad-skirted  fus 
tian  coat,  perplexed  with  half  a  hundred  pockets  ; 
a  pair  of  stout  shoes,  and  leathern  gaiters ;  a  bas 
ket  blung  on  one  side  for  fish ;  a  patent  rod,  a 
landing-net,  and  a  score  of  other  inconveniences, 
only  to  be  found  in  the  true  angler's  armory. 
Thus  harnessed  for  the  field,  he  was  as  great  a 
matter  of  stare  and  wonderment  among  the  coun 
try  folk,  who  had  never  seen  a  regular  angler,  as 
was  the  steel-clad  hero  of  La  Mancha  among  the 
goat-herds  of  tlte  Sierra  Morena. 

Our  first  essay  was  along  a  mountain-brook, 
among  the  highlands  of  the  Hudson ;  a  most  un 
fortunate  place  for  the  execution  of  those  pisca 
tory  tactics  which  had  been  invented  along  the 
velvet  margins  of  quiet  English  rivulets.  It  was 
one  of  those  wild  streams  that  lavish,  among  our 
romantic  solitudes,  unheeded  beauties,  enough  to 
fill  the  sketch-book  of  a  hunter  of  the  picturesqipj 
Sometimes  it  would  leap  down  rocky  shelves, 
making  small  cascades,  over  which  the  trees  threw 
their  broad  balancing  sprays,  and  long  nameless 
weeds  hung  ir  fringes  from  the  impending  banks, 
dripping  with  diamond  drops.  Sometimes  it 


442  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Wo  did  brawl  and  fret  along  a  ravine  in  the  matted 
shade  of  a  forest,  filling  it  with  murmurs ;  &.ud, 
aftor  this  termagant  career,  would  steal  forth  into 
open  day  with  the  most  placid  demure  face  imag 
inable  ;  as  I  have  seen  some  pestilent  shrew  of  a 
housewife,  after  filling  her  home  with  uproar  and 
ill-humor,  come  dimpling  out  of  doors,  swimming 
and  courtesying,  and  smiling  upon  all  the  world. 

How  smoothly  would  this  vagrant  brook  glide. 
at  such  times,  through  some  bosom  of  green 
meadow-land  among  the  mountains ;  where  the 
quiet  was  only  interrupted  by  the  occasional  tink 
ling  of  a  bell  from  the  lazy  cattle  among  tho 
clover,  or  the  sound  of  a  wood-cutter's  axe  from 
the  neighboring  forest. 

For  my  part,  I  was  always  a  bungler  at  all 
kinds  of  sport  that  required  either  patience  or 
adroitness,  and  had  not  angled  above  half  an 
hour  before  I  had  completely  "  satisfied  the  senti 
ment,"  and  convinced  myself  of  the  truth  of 
Izaak  Walton's  opinion,  that  angling  is  something 
like  poetry  —  a  man  must  be  born  to  it.  I 
hooked  myself  instead  of  the  fish  ;  tangled  my 
line  in  every  tree  ;  lost  my  bait ;  broke  my  rod  ; 
until  I  gave  up  the  attempt  in  despair,  and  passed 
the  day  under  the  trees,  reading  old  Izaak  ;  satis 
fied  that  it  was  his  fascinating  vein  of  honest  sim 
plicity  and  rural  feeling  that  had  bewitched  me, 
and  not  the  passion  for  angling.  My  companions, 
bowever,  were  more  persevering  in  their  delusion 
I  Lave  them  at  this  moment  before  my  eyes 
stealing  along  the  border  of  the  brook,  where  it 
lay  open  f«  tl;e  day,  or  was  merely  fringed  by 


THE  ANGLER.  443 

Bhruba  and  bushes.  I  see  the  bittern  rising  with 
hollow  scream  as  they  break  in  upon  his  rarely 
invaded  haunt ;  the  kingfisher  watching  them  sus 
piciously  from  his  dry  tree  that  overhangs  tho 
deep  black  mill-pond,  in  the  gorge  of  the  hills ; 
the  tortoise  letting  himself  slip  sideways  from  off 
the  stone  or  log  on  which  he  is  punning  himself; 
and  the  panic-struck  frog  plumping  in  headlong 
as  they  approach,  and  spreading  an  alarm  through 
out  the  watery  world  around. 

I  recollect  also,  that,  after  toiling  and  watching 
and  creeping  about  for  the  greater  part  of  a  day, 
with  scarcely  any  success,  in  spite  of  all  our  admi 
rable  apparatus,  a  lubberly  country  urchin  came 
down  from  the  hills  with  a  rod  made  from  a  branch 
of  a  tree,  a  few  yards  of  twine,  and,  as  Heaven 
shall  help  me !  I  believe,  a  crooked  pin  for  a  hook, 
baited  with  a  vile  earthworm, —  and  in  half  an 
hour  caught  more  fish  than  we  had  nibbles  through 
out  the  day! 

But,  above  all,  I  recollect,  the  "  good,  honest, 
wholesome,  hungry  "  repast,  which  we  made  under 
a  beech-tree,  just  by  a  spring  of  pure  sweet  watei 
that  stole  out  of  the  side  of  a  hill ;  and  how,  when 
it  was  over,  one  of  the  party  read  old  Izaak  Wal 
ton's  scene  with  the  milkmaid,  while  I  lay  on  tho 
grass  and  built  castles  in  a  bright  pile  of  clouda, 
until  I  fell  asleep.  All  this  may  appear  like  mere 
egotism ;  yet  I  cannot  refrain  from  uttering  these 
recollections,  which  are  passing  like  a  strain  of 
mimic  over  my  mind,  and  have  been  called  up  by 
an  agreeable  scene  which  I  witnessed  not  long 
linoe. 


444  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

In  a  morning's  stroll  along  the  banks  of  tba 
Alun,  a  beautiful  little  stream  which  flows  down 
from  the  Welsh  hills  and  throws  itself  into  the  Dee, 
my  attention  was  attracted  to  a  group  seated  on  tho 
margin.  On  approaching,  I  found  it  to  consist  of 
a  veteran  angler  and  two  rustic  disciples.  The 
former  was  an  old  fellow  with  a  wooden  leg,  with 
clothes  very  much  but  very  carefully  patched,  be 
tokening  poverty,  honestly  come  by,  and  decently 
maintained.  His  face  bore  the  marks  of  former 
storms,  but  present  fair  weather  ;  its  furrows  had 
been  worn  into  an  habitual  smile ;  his  iron-gray 
locks  hung  about  his  ears,  and  he  had  altogether 
the  good-humored  air  of  a  constitutional  philosopher 
who  was  disposed  to  take  the  world  as  it  went. 
One  of  his  companions  was  a  ragged  wight,  with 
the  skulking  look  of  an  arrant  poacher,  and  I  '11 
warrant  could  find  his  way  to  any  gentleman's 
fish-pond  in  the  neighborhood  in  the  darkest  night. 
The  other  was  a  tall,  awkward,  country  lad,  with 
a  lounging  gait,  and  apparently  somewhat  of  a  rus 
tic  beau.  The  old  man  was  busy  in  examining 
the  maw  of  a  trout  which  he  had  just  killed,  to 
discover  by  its  contents  what  insects  were  season 
able  for  bait ;  and  was  lecturing  on  the  subject  to 
h»s  companions,  who  appeared  to  listen  with  in 
finite  deference.  I  have  a  kind  feeling  towards  all 
"  brothers  of  the  angle,"  ever  since  I  read  Izaak 
Walton.  They  are  men*  he  aifirms,  of  a  "  mild, 
Bweet,  and  peaceable  spirit ; "  and  my  esteem  for 
them  has  been  increased  since  I  met  with  an  old 
"  Tretysc  of  fishing  with  the  Angle/  in  which  are 
set  forth  many  of  the  maxims  of  their  i 


THE  ANGLER.  445 

fraternity.  "  Take  good  Lede,"  sayeth  this  honest 
little  tretyse,  "  that  in  going  about  your  disportes 
ye  open  no  man's  gates  but  that  ye  shot  them  again* 
Also  ye  shall  not  use  this  forsayd  crafti  disport  for 
no  covciousncss  to  the  encreasing  and  sparing  of 
your  money  only,  but  principally  for  your  solace, 
and  to  cause  the  Keith  of  your  'body  and  specyally 
0£  your  soule."  * 

I  thought  that  I  could  perceive  in  the  veteran 
ongier  before  me  an  exemplification  of  what  I  had 
read  ;  and  there  was  a  cheerful  contentedness  in  his 
looks  that  quite  drew  me  towards  him.  I  could  not 
but  remark  the  gallant  manner  in  which  he  stumped 
from  one  part  of  the  brook  to  another  ;  waving  his 
rod  iii  the  air,  to  keep  the  line  from  dragging  on 
the  ground  or  catching  among  the  bushes  ;  and  the 
adroitness  with  which  he  would  throw  his  fly  to  any 
particular  place ;  sometimes  skimming  it  lightly 
along  a  little  rapid,  sometimes  casting  it  into  one 
of  those  dark  holes  made  by  a  twisted  root  or  over 
hanging  bank,  in  which  the  large  trout  are  apt  to 
lurk.  In  the  meanwhile  he  was  giving  instructions 
to  his  two  disciples ;  showing  them  the  manner  in 
which  they  should  handle  their  rods,  fix  their  flies, 
and  play  them  along  the  surface  of  the  stream. 
The  scene  brought  to  my  mind  the  instructions  of 

*  From  this  same  treatise,  it  would  appear  that  angling  ia 
•  rmre  industrious  and  devout «mploy men, t  than  it  is  gener 
ally  considered.  —  ''For  when  ye  purpose  to  go  on  your  dis- 
portes  ia  lishvnge  ye  will  not  desyre  greatlye  many  persona 
Witt  you,  which  mij^ht  let  you  of  your  <;ane.  And  that  ye 
may  serve  God  devoutly  in  savinge  etlectiully  your  custom 
able  prayers.  And  thus  doyfng,  ye  shall  eschew  nnd  also 
avoifle  many  vices,  as  ydelnes,  which  is  principall  cause  to  in* 
auce  man  to  many  other  vices,  as  it  is  right  well  known." 


446  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  sage  Piscator  to  his  scholar.  The  country 
around  was  of  that  pastoral  kind  which  Walton  is 
fond  ot  describing.  It  was  a  part  of  the  great  plain 
of  Cheshire,  close  by  the  beautiful  vale  of  Gessford. 
and  just  where  the  inferior  Welsh  hills  begin  to 
swell  up  from  among  fresh-swelling  meadows.  Tlie 
day,  too,  like  that  recorded  in  his  work,  was  mild 
and  sunshiny,  with  now  and  then  a  soft-dropping 
shower,  that  sowed  the  whole  earth  with  dia 
monds.  • 

I  soon  fell  into  conversation  with  the  old  angler, 
and  was  so  much  entertained  that,  under  pretext 
of  receiving  instructions  in  his  art,  I  kept  company 
with  him  almost  the  whole  day ;  wandering  along 
the  banks  of  the  stream,  and  listening  to  his  talk. 
He  was  very  communicative,  having  all  the  easy 
garrulity  of  cheerful  old  age ;  and  I  fancy  was  a 
little  flattered  by  having  an  opportunity  of  display 
ing  his  piscatory  lore  ;  for  who  does  not  like  now 
and  then  to  play  the  sage  ? 

He  had  been  much  of  a  rambler  in  his  day,  and 
had  passed  some  years  of  his  youth  in  America, 
particularly  in  Savannah,  where  he  had  entered 
into  trade,  and  had  been  ruined  by  the  indiscretion 
of  a  partner.  He  had  afterwards  experienced 
many  ups  and  downs  in  life,  until  he  got  into  the 
navy,  where  his  leg  was  carried  away  by  a  cannon- 
ball,  at  the  battle  of  Camperdown.  This  was  tho 
only  stroke  of  real  goocf-fortune  he  had  over  ex 
perienced,  for  it  got  him  a  pension,  which,  together 
with  some  small  paternal  property,  brought  him  in 
a  revenue  of  nearly  forty  pounds.  On  this  he  re 
tired  to  his  native  village,  where  he  lived 


THE  ANGLER.  447 

and  independently ;  and  devoted  the  lemainder  of 
his  life  to  the  "  noble  art  of  angling." 

I  found  that  he  had  read  Izaak  AValton  atten 
tively,  and  he  seemed  to  have  imbibed  all  his  simple 
frankness  and  prevalent  good-humor.  Though  he 
had  been  sorely  buffeted  about  the  world,  he  was 
satisfied  that  the  world,  in  itself,  was  good  and  beau 
tiful.  Though  he  had  been  as  roughly  used  in  dif 
ferent  countries  as  a  poor  sheep  that  is  ileeeed  by 
every  hedge  and  thicket-,  yet  he  spoke  of  every 
nation  with  candor  and  kindness,  appearing  to  look 
only  on  the  good  side  of  things  ;  and,  above  all,  he 
was  almost  the  only  mp,n  I  had  ever  met  with  who 
had  been  an  unfortunate  adventurer  in  America, 
and  had  honesty  and  magnanimity  enough  to  take 
the  fault  to  his  own  door,  and  not  to  curse  the  coun 
try.  The  lad  that  was  receiving  his  instructions,  I 
learnt,  was  the  son  and  heir  apparent  of  a  fat  old 
widow  who  kept  the  village  inn,  and  of  course  a 
youth  of  some  expectation,  and  much  courted  by 
the  idle  gentlemanlike  personages  of  the  place.  In 
taking  him  under  his  care,  therefore,  the  old  man 
had  probably  an  eye  to  a  privileged  corner  in  the 
tap-room,  and  an  occasional  cup  of  cheerful  ale  free 
of  expense. 

There  is  certainly  something  in  angling,  if  we 
could  forget,  which  anglers  are  apt  to  do,  the  cruel 
lies  and  tortures  inflicted  on  worms  and  insects,  that 
tends  to  produce  a  gentleness  of  spirit,  and  a  pure 
serenity  of  mind.  As  the  English  arc  methodical 
even  in  their  recreations,  and  are  the.  most  scien 
tific  of  sportsmen,  it  has  been  reduced  among  them 
to  perfect  rule  and  system.  Indeed  it  is  an  amuse' 


443  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

meat  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  mild  and  bighlj 
cultivated  scenery  of  England,  where  every  rough 
ness  has  been  softened  away  from  the  landscape* 
It  is  delightful  to  saunter  along  those  limpid  streams 
which  wander,  like  veins  of  silver,  through  tho 
bosom  of  this  beautifu1  country;  leading  one 
through  a  diversity  of  small  home  scenery ;  some 
times  winding  through  ornamented  grounds  ;  some 
times  brimming  along  through  rich  pasturage, 
where  the  fresh  green  is  mingled  with  sweet-smell 
ing  flowers ;  sometimes  venturing  in  sight  of  vil 
lages  and  hamlets,  and  then  running  capriciously 
away  into  shady  retirements.  The  sweetness  and 
serenity  of  nature,  and  the  quiet  watchfulness  of 
the  sport,  gradually  bring  on  pleasant  fits  of  mus 
ing,  which  are  now  and  then  agreeably  interrupted 
by  the  song  of  a  bird,  the  distant  whistle  of  the 
peasant,  or  perhaps  the  vagary  of  some  fish,  leap 
ing  out  of  the  still  water,  and  skimming  transiently 
about  its  glassy  surface.  "  When  I  would  beget 
content,"  says  Izaak  Walton,  "  and  increase  confi 
dence  in  the  power  and  wisdom  and  providence  of 
Almighty  God,  I  will  walk  the  meadows  by  some 
gliding  stream,  and  there  contemplate  the  lilies  that 
take  no  care,  and  those  very  many  other  little  liv 
ing  creatures  that  are  not  only  created  but  fed 
(man  knows  not  how)  by  the  goodness  of  the  God 
of  nature,  and  therefore  trust  in  him." 

I  cannot  forbear  to  give  another  quotation  from 
sue  of  those  ancient  champions  of  angling,  wLicb 
breathes  the  same  innocent  and  happy  spirit :  -  - 

"  Let  me  live  harmlessly,  and  near  the  brink 
Of  Trent  or  Avon  have  a  dwelling-place, 


THE  ANGLER.  449 

Where  I  '.nay  see  my  quill,  or  cork,  down  sink, 
With  eager  bite  of  pike,  or  bleak,  or  dace; 

And  on  the  world  and  my  Creator  think: 
Whilst  some  men  strive  ill-gotten  goods  t'  embrace? 

And  others  spend  their  time  in  base  excess 
Of  wine,  or  worse,  in  war,  or  wantonness. 

"Let  them  that  will,  these  pastimes  still  pursue, 
And  on  such  pleasing  Axncies  feed  their  fill ; 

So  I  the  fields  and  meadows  green  may  view, 
And  daily  by  fresh  river  walk  at  will, 

Among  the  daisies  and  the  violets  blue, 
Red  hyacinth  and  yellow  daffodil."  * 

On  parting  with  the  old  angler  I  inquired  after 
kw  place  of  a  bode ;  and  happening  to  be  in  thf 
neighborhood  of  the  village  a  few  evenings  after 
wards,  I  had  the  curiosity  to  seek  him  out.  I  found 
him  living  in  a  small  cottage,  containing  only  one 
room,  but  a  perfect  curiosity  in  its  method  and  ar 
rangement.  It  was  on  the  skirts  of  the  village,  on 
a  green  bank,  a  little  back  from  the  road,  with  a 
small  garden  in  front,  stocked  with  kitchen-herbs, 
and  adorned  with  a  few  flowers.  The  whole  front 
of  the  cottage  was  overrun  with  a  honeysuckle. 
On  the  top  was  a  ship  for  a  weathercock.  The  in 
terior  was  fitted  up  in  a  truly  nautical  style,  hia 
ideas  of  comfort  and  convenience  having  been  ac 
quired  on  the  berth-deck  of  a  man-of-war.  A  ham 
mock  was  slung  from  the  ceiling,  which,  in  the  day 
time,  was  lashed  up  so  as  to  take  but  little  room. 
From  *  he  centre'  of  the  chamber  hung  a  model  of  a 
ship,  of  his  own  workmanship.  Two  or  three  chairs, 
a  table,  and  a  large  sea-chest,  formed  the  principal 
movables.  About  the  wall  were  stuck  up  naval 
ballads,  s*ich  as  "  Admiral  Hosier's  Ghost,"  "  All 

*  J.  Davors. 

29 


450  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

in  the  Downs,"  and  "  Tom  Bowline,"  intermingled 
with  pictures  of  sea-fights,  among  which  the  battle 
of  Camperdown  held  a  distinguished  place.  The 
mantelpiece  was  decorated  with  sea-shells ;  over 
which  hung  a  quadrant,  flanked  by  two  \vocd-cutd 
of  most  bitter  -  looking  naval  commanders.  His 
implements  for  angling  were  carefully  disposed  on 
nails  and  hooks  about  the  room.  On  a  shelf  was 
arranged  his  library,  containing  a  work  on  angling, 
much  worn,  a  Bible  covered  with  canvas,  an  odd 
volume  or  two  of  voyages,  a  nautical  almanac,  and 
a  book  of  songs. 

His  family  consisted  of  a  large  black  cat  with 
one  eye,  and  a  parrot  which  he  had  caught  and 
tamed,  and  educated  himself,  in  the  course  of  one 
of  his  voyages  ;  and  which  uttered  a  variety  of 
sea-phrases  with  the  hoarse  brattling  tone  of  a 
veteran  boatswain.  The  establishment  reminded 
me  of  that  of  the  renowned  Robinson  Crusoe  ;  it 
was  kept  in  neat  order,  everything  being  "  stowed 
away  "  with  the  regularity  of  a  ship-of-war ;  and 
he  informed  me  that  he  "  scoured  the  deck  every 
morning,  and  swept  it  between  meals." 

I  found  him  seated  on  a  bench  before  the  door 
smoking  his  pipe  in  the  soft  evening  sunshine. 
His  cat  was  purring  soberly  on  the  threshold,  and 
his  parrot  describing  some  strange  evolutions  in 
an  iron  ring  that  swung  in  the  centre  of  his  cage. 
He  had  been  angling  all  day,  and  gave  me  a  his* 
tory  of  his  sport  with  as  much  minuteness  as  a 
general  would  talk  over  a  campaign  ;  being  par 
ticularly  animated  in  relating  the  manner  in  which 
he  had  taken  a  large  trout,  which  had  complc  tety 


THE  ANGLER.  451 

tasked  all  his  skill  and  wariness,  and  which  ho 
had  sent  as  a  trophy  to  mine  hostess  of  the  inn. 

How  comforting  it  is  to  see  a  cheerful  and  con 
tented  old  age  ;  and  to  behold  a  poor  fellow,  liko 
this,  after  being  tempest-tost  through  life,  safely 
moored  in  a  snug  and  quiet  harbor  in  the  evening 
of  his  days !  His  happiness,  however,  sprung 
from  within  himself,  and  was  independent  of  ex 
ternal  circumstances  ;  for  he  had  that  inexhausti 
ble  good-nature,  which  is  the  most  precious  gift 
of  Heaven, —  spreading  itself  like  oil  over  tho 
troubled  sea  of  thought,  and  keeping  the  mind 
smooth  and  equable  in  the  roughest  weather. 

On  inquiring  further  about  him,  I  learned  *!iat 
he  was  a  universal  favorite  in  the  village,  and  the 
oracle  of  the  tap-room ;  where  he  delighted  tho 
rustics  with  his  songs,  and,  like  Sinbad,  astonished 
them  with  his  stories  of  strange  lands,  and  ship 
wrecks,  and  sea-fights.  He  was  much  noticed  too 
by  gentlemen  sportsmen  of  the  neighborhood  ;  had 
taught  several  of  them  the  art  of  angling ;  and 
was  a  privileged  visitor  to  their  kitchens.  The 
whole  tenor  ot  his  life  was  quiet  and  inoffensive, 
being  principally  passed  about  the  neighboring 
streams,  when  the  weather  and  season  were  faTor- 
able  ;  and  at  other  times  he  employed  himself  at 
home,  preparing  his  fishing-tackle  for  the  next 
campaign,  or  manufacturing  rods,  nets,  and  fliea, 
for  his  patrons  and  pupils  among  the  gentry. 

He  was  a  regular  attendant  at  church  on  Sun 
days  though  he  generally  fell  asleep  during  tho 
BeiTOon.  He  had  made  it  his  particular  request 
that  when  he  died  he  should  be  buried  in  a  green 


452  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

ppot,  which  lie  conld  see  from  his  seat  m  church, 
ai.nl  which  he  had  marked  out  ever  since  he  wiia 
a  boy,  anc  had  thought  of  when  far  from  home 
on  the  raging  sea,  in  danger  of  being  food  for  the 
fishes ;  —  it  was  the  spot  where  his  father  and 
mother  had  been  buried. 

T  have  done,  for  I  fear  that  my  reader  is  grow 
ing  weary  ;  but  I  could  not  refrain  from  drawing 
the  picture  of  this  worthy  "  brother  of  the  angle  ;" 
who  has  made  me  more  than  ever  in  love  with  the 
theory,  though  I  fear  I  shall  never  be  adroit  in 
tb<».  practice  of  his  art  ;  and  I  will  conclude  this 
rambling  sketch  in  the  words  of  honest  Izaak 
Walton,  by  craving  the  blessing  of  St.  Peter\ 
roaster  upon  my  reader,  "  and  upon  all  that  are 
true  lovers  of  virtue  ;  and  dare  trust  in  his  prov 
idence  ;  wad  be  quiet ;  and  go  a-angling-" 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 

POUND    AMONG    TI1E    TAPERS    OF  TUB   LATE  DIEDRICfl 
KNICKEKUOCKElt. 


A  pleasing  land  of  drovrsy  head  it  was, 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye, 

And  of  j;ay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
For  ever  Hushing  round  a  summer  sky. 

CASTLE  OF  IXDOLENCK. 

N  the  bosom  of  one  of  those  spaciom 
10 -n"  coves  which  indent  the  eastern  shore  of' 
the  Hudson,  at  that  broad  expansion 
of  the  river  denominated  by  the  ancient  Dutch 
navigators  the  Tappan  Zee,,  and  where  they 
always  prudently  shortened  sail,  mid  implored 
the  protection  of  St.  Nicholas  when  they  crossed, 
there  lies  a  small  market -town  or  rural  port, 
which  by  some  is  called  Greensburgh,  but  which 
is  more  gene-rally  and  properly  known  by  the 
name  of  Tarry  Town.  This  name  was  given,  we 
are  told,  in  former  days,  by  the  good  housewives 
of  the  adjacent  country,  from  the  inveterate  pr> 
peusity  of  their  husbands  to  linger  about  tl/^  vil- 
luge  tavern  on  market-Hays.  l>e  that  as  it  rnay; 
I  do  not  vouch  for  the  fact,  but  merely  advert  to 
it  ibr  the  sake  of  being  precise  and  authcMi«.i. 
Not  far  from  this  village,  perhaps  about  two  miles, 
there  is  a  little  valley,  or  rather  lap  of  land,  among 
feigh  hills,  which  is  one  of  the  quietest  places  io 

453 


454  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

the  wholo.  world.  A  small  brook  glides  through 
it,  with  just  murmur  enough  to  lull  one  to  repose ; 
and  the  occasional  whistle  of  a  quail,  or  tapping 
of  a  woodpecker,  is  almost  the  only  sound  that 
ever  breaks  in  upon  the  uniform  tranquillity. 

I  recollect  that,  when  a  stripling,  my  first  ex 
ploit  in  squirrel-shooting  was  in  a  grove  of  Udl 
\Talnut-trecs  that  shades  one  side  of  the  valley. 
I  had  wandered  into  it  at  noon-time,  when  all 
nature  is  peculiarly  quiet,  and  was  startled  by  tli3 
roar  of  my  own  gun,  as  it  broke  the  Sabbath 
stillness  around,  and  was  prolonged  and  rever 
berated  by  the  angry  echoes.  If  ever  I  should 
wish  for  a  retreat,  whither  I  might  steal  from  the 
world  and  its  distractions,  and  dream  quietly 
away  the  remnant  of  a  troubled  life,  I  know  of 
none  more  promising  than  this  little  valley. 

From  the  listless  repose  of  the  place,  and  the 
peculiar  character  of  its  inhabitants,  who  are  de 
scendants  from  the  original  Dutch  settlers,  this 
sequestered  glen  has  long  been  known  by  the 
name  of  SLEEPY  HOLLOW,  and  its  rustic  lads 
are  called  the  Sleepy  Hollow  Boys  throughout 
all  the  neighboring  country.  A  drowsy,  dreamy 

influence   seems  to   hang  over  the  la:id,  and  to 

^    pervade    the  very  atmosphere.     Some    say  that 
\   the  place  was  bewitched  by  a  high   German  doc- 
\  tor,    during    the    early  days    of  the    settlement; 
Others,  that  an  old  Indian  chief,  the   prophet  or 
wizard  of  his  tribe,  held  his  pow-wows  theiv)  be 
fore  the  country  was  discovered  by  Master  lien* 
drick  Hudson i     Certain  it  is,  the  place  still  con- 
tiuues  under   the  sway  of  some  witching  powor, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.   455 


that  holds  a  spell  over  the  minds  of  the  good 
pie,  causing  them  to  walk  in  a  continual  reverie, 
They  are  given  to  all  kinds  of  marvellous  be* 
liefs ;  are  subject  to  trances  and  visions ;  and 
frequently  see  strange  sights,  and  hear  music 
end  voices  in  the  air.  The  whole  neighborhood 
abounds  with  local  tales,  haunted  spots,  and  twi 
light  superstitions ;  stars  shoot  and  meteors  glare 
oftener  across  the  valley  than  in  any  other  part 
of  the  country,  and  the  nightmare,  with  her 
whole  ninefold,  seems  to  make  it  the  favorite  scene 
of  her  gambols. 

The  dominant  spirit,  however,  that  haunts  this 
enchanted  region,  and  seems  to  be  commander-in- 
chief  of  all  the  powers  of  the  air,  is  the  apparition 
of  a  figure  on.  horseback  without  a  head.  It  is 
said  by  some  to  be  the  ghost  of  a  Hessian  trooper, 
whose  head  had  been  carried  away  by  a  cannon- 
ball,  in  some  nameless  battle  during  the  Revolu 
tionary  War,  and  who  is  ever  and  anon  seen  by 
the  country  folk,  hurrying  along  in  the  gloom  of 
night,  as  if  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.  His  haunta 
are  not  confined  to  the  valley,  but  extend  at  timea 
to  the  adjacent  roads,  and  especially  to  the  vicin 
ity  of  a  church  at  no  great  distance.  Indeed, 
certain  of  the  most  autltentic  historians  of  those 
parts,  who  have  been  careful  in  collecting  and  col 
lating  the  floating  facts  concerning  this  spectre, 
allege  that  the  body  of  the  trooper,  having  been 
buried  in  the  churchyard,  the  ghost  rides  forth  to 
the  scene  of  battle  in  nightly  quest  of  his  head  j 
and  that  the  rushing  speed  with  which  he  some- 
times  passes  along  the  Hollow,  like  a  midnight 


156  TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

blast,  is  owing  to  his  being  belated,  and  in  a 
iurry  to  get  back  to  the  church  yard  before  day 
break. 

Such  is  the  general  purport  of  this  legendary 
superstition,  which  lias  furnished  materials  for 
many  a  wild  story  in  that  region  of  shadows ;  and 
the  spectre  is  known,  at  all  the  country  firesides, 
by  the  name  of  the  Headless  Horseman  of  Sleepy 
Hollow. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  visionary  propensity 
J  have  mentioned  is  not  confined  to  the  native 
inhabitants  of  the  valley,  but  is  unconsciously  im 
bibed  by  every  one  who  resides  there  for  a  time. 
However  wide  awake  they  may  have  been  before 
they  entered  that  sleepy  region,  they  are  sure,  in 
a  little  time,  to  inhale  the  witching  influence  of 
the  air,  and  begin  to  grow  imaginativeJlJto.jdreg|D 
dreams,  and  see  apparitions. 

I  mention  this  peaceful  spot  with  all  possible 
laud ;  for  it  is  in  such  little  retired  Dutch  valleys, 
found  here  and  there  embosomed  in  the  great 
State  of  New  York,  that  population,  manners,  and 
customs  remain  fixed ;  while  the  great  torrent 
of  migration  and  improvement,  which  is  making 
such  incessant  changes  in  other  parts  of  this  rest 
less  country,  sweeps  by  them  unobserved.  They 
ore  like  those  little  nooks  of  still  water  which 
border  a  rapid  stream ;  where  we  may  see  the 
straw  and  bubble  riding  quietly  at  anchor,  or 
slowly  revolving  in  their  mimic  harbor,  undis* 
turbed  by  the  rush  of  the  passing  current.  Though 
many  years  have  elapsed  since  I  trod  the  drowsy 
shades  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  yet  I  question  whether 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.   457 

I  shonld  not  still  find  the  same  trees    and    the 
lame  familie?  vegetating  in  its  sheltered  bosom. 

In  this  by-place  of  nature,  there  abode,  in  a  re 
mote  period  of  American  history,  that  is  to  say, 
some  thirty  years  since,  a  worthy  wight  of  the 
name  of  Ichabod  Crane  ;  who  sojourned,  or,  as  ho 
expressed  it,  "  tarried,"  in  Sleepy  Hollow,  for  the 
purpose  of  instructing  the  children  of  the  vicinity. 
He  was  a  native  of  Connecticut,  a  State  which 
supplies  the  Union  with  pioneers  for  the  mind  as 
well  as  for  the  forest,  and  sends  forth  yearly  its 
legions  of  frontier  woodsmen  and  country  school 
masters.  The  cognomen  of  Crane  was  not  inap 
plicable  to  his  person.  He  was  tall,  but  exceed 
ingly  lank,  with  narrow  shoulders,  long  arms  and 
legs,  hands  that  dangled  a  mile  out  of  his  sleeves, 
feet  that  might  have  served  for  shovels,  and  his 
whole  frame  most  loosely  hung  together.  His 
head  was  small,  and  flat  at  top,  with  huge  ears, 
large  green  glassy  eyes,  and  a  long  snipe  nose, 
so  that  it  looked  like  a  weathercock  perched 
upon  his  spindle  neck,  to  tell  which  way  the  wind 
blew.  To  see  him  striding  along  the  profile  of 
a  hill  on  a  windy  day,  with  his  clothes  bagging 
and  fluttering  about  him,  one  might  have  mis 
taken  him  for  the  genius  of  famine  descending 
upon  the  earth,  or  some  scarecrow  eloped  from 
a  cornfield. 

His  school-house  was  a  low  building  of  ojao 
large  room,  rudely  constructed  of  logs  ;  the  win 
dows  partly  glazed,  and  partly  patched  with  leaves 
of  old  copy-books.  It  was  most  ingeniously  se 
cured  at  vacant  hours  by  a  withe  twisted  in  thfl 


458  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

handle  of  the  door,  and  stakes  set  against  the 
window-slmttors ;  so  that,  though  a  thief  might 
got  in  with  perfect  ease,  he  would  find  some  em 
barrassment  in  getting  out :  an  idea  most  prob 
ably  borrowed  by  the  architect,  Yost  Van  Houten, 
from  the  mystery  of  an  eel-pot  The  school- 
house  stood  in  a  rather  lonely  but  pleasant  situa 
tion,  just  at  the  foot  of  a  woody  hill,  with  a  brook 
running  close  by,  and  a  formidable  birch-tree  grow 
ing  at  one  end  of  it.  From  Jience  the  low  mur 
mur  of  his  pupils'  voices,  conning  over  their  les 
sons,  might  be  heard  in  a  drowsy  summer's  day, 
like  the  hum  of  a  bee-hive ;  interrupted  now  and 
then  by  the  authoritative  voice  of  the  master,  in 
the  tone  of  menace  or  command ;  or,  peradven- 
ture,  by  the  appalling  sound  of  the  birch,  as  he 
urged  some  tardy  loiterer  along  the  flowery  path 
of  knowledge.  Truth  to  say,  he  was  a  conscien 
tious  man,  and  ever  bore  in  mind  the  golden 
maxim,  "  Spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the  child."-— 
Ichabod  Crane's  scholars  certainly  were  not 
spoiled. 

I  would  not  have  it  imagined,  however,  that  he 
was  one  of  those  cruel  potentates  of  the  school, 
who  joy  in  the  smart  of*  their  subjects  ;  on  the 
contrary,  he  administered  justice  with  discrimina* 
Don  rather  than  severity,  taking  the  burden  off 
tlic  backs  of  the  weak,  and  laying  it  on  those  of 
the  strong.  Your  mere  puny  stripling,  that 
winced  at  the  least  flourish  of  the  rod,  was  passed 
Oy  with  indulgence  ;  but  the  claims  of  justice  wens 
satisfied  by  inflicting  a  double  portion  on  some 
little,  tough,  wrong-headed,  bread-skirted  Dutch 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPl   HOLLOW.   451) 

nrchin,  who  sulked  and  swelled  and  grew  doggeq 
and  sullen  beneath  the  birch.  All  this  he  called 
"doing  his  duty  "  by  their  parents  ;  and  he  neve? 
inflicted  a  chastisement  without  following  it  by  the 
assurance,  so  consolatory  to  the  smarting  urchin, 
that  "  he  would  remember  it,  and  thank  him  for  it 
the  longest  day  he  had  to  live." 

When  school-hours  were  over,  he  was  even  the 
companion  and  playmate  of  the  larger  boys  ;  and 
on  holiday  afternoons  would  convoy  some  of  the 
smaller  ones  home,  who  happened  to  have  pretty 
sisters,  or  good  housewives  for  mothers,  noted  for 
the  comforts  of  the  cupboard.  Indeed  it  behooved 
him  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  his  pupils.  The 
revenue  arising  from  his  school  was  small,  and 
would  have  been  scarcely  sufficient  to  furnish  him 
with  daily  bread,  for  he  was  a  huge  feeder,  and, 
though  lank,  had  the  dilating  powers  of  an  ana 
conda  ;  but  to  help  out  his  maintenance,  he  was, 
according  to  country  custom  in  those  parts,  board 
ed  and  lodged  at  the  houses  of  the  farmers,  whose 
children  he  instructed.  With  these  he  lived  suc 
cessively  a  week  at  a  time  ;  thus  going  the  rounds 
of  the  neighborhood,  with  all  his  worldly  effects 
tied  up  in  a  cotten  handkerchief. 

That  all  this  might  not  be  too  onerous  on  the 
purses  of  his  rustic  patrons,  who  are  apt  to  con 
sider  the  costs  of  schooling  a  grievous  burden,  and 
schoolmasters  as  mere  drones,  he  had  various 
ways  of  rendering  himself  both  useful  and  agree 
able,  lie  assisted  the  farmers  occasionally  in  the 
lighter  labors  of  their  farms  ;  helped  to  make  hay 
toendjd  the  fences;  took  the  horses  to  water 


400  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

drove  the  cows  from  pasture ;  and  cut  wood  foi 
the  winter  fire.  lie  laid  aside,  too,  all  the  domi 
nant  dignity  and  absolute  sway  with  which  he 
lorded  it  in  his  little  empire,  the  school,  *md  be 
came  wonderfully  gentle  and  ingratiating.  lie 
found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  mothers*,  by  pet 
ting  the  children,  particularly  the  youngest ;  and 
like  the  lion  bold,  which  whilom  so  magnani 
mously  the  lamb  did  hold,  he  would  sit  with  a 
child  on  one  knee,  and  rock  a  cradle  with  his  foot 
for  whole  hours  together. 

In  addition  to  liis  other  vocations,  he  was  the 
singing-master  of  the  neighborhood,  and  picked  up 
many  bright  shillings  by  instructing  the  young 
folks  in  psalmody.  It  was  a  matter  of  no  little 
vanity  to  him,  on  Sundays,  to  take  his  station  in 
front  of  the  church-gallery,  with  a  band  of  chosen 
singers ;  where,  in  his  own  mind,  he  completely 
carried  away  the  palm  from  the  parson.  Certain 
it  is,  his  voice  resounded  far  above  all  the  rest  of 
the  congregation  ;  and  there  arc  peculiar  quavers 
still  to  be  heard  in  that  church,  and  which  may 
even  be  heard  half  a  mile  off,  quite  to  the  oppo 
site  side  of  the  mill-pond,  on  a  still  Sunday  morn 
ing,  which  are  said  to  be  legitimately  descended 
from  the  nose  of  Ichabod  Crane.  Thus,  by  divers 
little  makeshifts  in  that  ingenious  way  which  is 
commonly  denominated  "  by  hook  and  by  crook," 
the  worthy  pedagogue  got  on  tolerably  enough, 
and  was  thought,  by  all  who  understood  nothing 
of  the  labor  of  headwork,  to  have  a  wonderfully 
easy  life  of  it. 

The  schoolmaster  is  generally  a  man  of  scma 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.    461 

Importance  in  the  female  circle  of  a  rural  neigh 
borhood  ;  being  considered  a  kind  of  idle,  gentle-- 
man-like  personage,  of  vastly  superior  taste  and 
accomplishments  to  the  rough  country  swains,  and, 
indeed,  inferior  in  learning  only  to  the  parson. 
His  appearance,  therefore,  is  apt  to  occasion  some 
little  stir  at  the  tea-table  of  a  farm-house,  and  the 
addition  of  a  supernumerary  dish  of  cakes  or  sweet 
meats,  or,  peradventure,  the  parade  of  a  silver  tea 
pot.  Our  man  of  letters,  therefore,  was  peculiarly 
happy  in  the  smiles  of  all  the  country  damsels. 
Ho\v  he  would  figure  among  them  in  the  church 
yard,  between  services  on  Sundays !  gathering 
grapes  for  them  from  the  wild  vines  that  overrun 
the  surrounding  trees ;  reciting  for  their  amuse 
ment  all  the  epitaphs  on  the  tombstones ;  or  saun 
tering,  with  a  whole  bevy  of  them,  along  the  banks 
of  the  adjacent  mill-pond  ;  while  the  more  bashful 
country  bumpkins  hung  sheepishly  back,  envying 
his  superior  elegance  and  address. 

From  his  half  itinerant  life,  also,  he  was  a  kind 
of  travelling  gazette,  carrying  the  whole  budget 
of  local  gossip  from  house  to  house  :  so  that  his 
appearance  was  always  greeted  with  satisfaction. 
He  was,  moreover,  esteemed  by  the  women  as  a 
man  of  great  erudition,  for  he  had  read  several 
books  quite  through,  and  was  a  perfect  master 
of  Cotton  Mather's  "  History  of  New  England 
Witchcraft,"  in  which,  by  the  way,  he  most  firm 
ly  and  potently  believed. 

lie  was,  in  fact,  an  odd  mixture  of  small 
shrewdness  and  simple  credulity.  His  appetite 
for  the  marvellous,  and  his  powers  of  digesting  it, 


4b'2  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

were  equally  extraordinary ;  and  both  had  been 
increased  by  his  residence  in  this  spellbound  re- 
gion.  No  tale  was  too  gross  or  monstrous  for  hia 
capacious  swallow.  It  was  often  his  delight,  aller 
his  school  was  dismissed  in  the  afternoon,  to 
stretch  himself  on  the  rich  bed  of  clover  bordering 
the  little  brook  that  whimpered  by  his  school-house, 
and  there  con  over  old  Mather's  direful  tales,  un 
til  the  gathering  dusk  of  the  evening  made  the 
printed  page  a  mere  mist  before  his  eyes.  Then, 
as  he  wended  his  way,  by  swamp  and  stream, 
and  awful  woodland,  to  the  farm-house  where  he 
happened  to  be  quartered,  every  sound  of  na 
ture,  at  that  witching  hour,  fluttered  his  excited 
imagination  ;  the  moan  of  the  whippoorwill  * 
from  the  hill-side ;  -the  boding  cry  of  the  tree- 
toad,  that  harbinger  of  storm ;  the  dreary  hooting 
of  the  screech-owl,  or  the  sudden  rustling  in  the 
thicket  of  birds  frightened  from  their  roost.  The 
fire-flies,  too,  which  sparkled  most  vividly  in  the 
darkest  places,  now  and  then  startled  him,  as  one 
of  uncommon  brightness  would  stream  across  his 
path ;  and  if,  by  chance,  a  huge  blockhead  of  a 
beetle  came  winging  his  blundering  flight  against 
him,  the  poor  varlet  was  ready  to  give  up  the 
ghost,  with  the  idea  that  he  was  struck  with  a 
witch's  token.  His  only  resource  on  such  occa 
sions,  either  to  drown  thought  or  drive  away  evil 
spirits,  was  to  sing  psalm -tunes;  and  the  good 
people  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  as  they  sat  by  their 

*  The  whippoorwill  is  a  bird  which  is  only  hoard  At 
ni^ht.  It  receives  its  name  from  its  note,  whicli  is  thoughf 
to  resemble  those  words. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW    463 

doors  of  an  evening,  were  often  filled  with  awe, 
at  hearing  his  nasal  melody,  "  in  linked  sweetness 
long  drawn  out,"  floating  from  the  distant  hill,  or 
along  the  dusky  road. 

Another  of  his  sources  of  fearful  pleasure  was, 
to  pass  long  winter  evenings  with  the  old  Dutch 
wives,  as  they  sat  spinning  by  the  fire,  with  a  row 
of  apples  roasting  and  spluttering  along  the  hearth, 
and  listen  to  their  marvellous  tales  of  ghosts  and 
gohlins,  and  haunted  fields,  and  haunted  brooks, 
and  haunted  bridges,  and  haunted  houses,  and 
particularly  of  the  headless  horseman,  or  Gallop 
ing  Hessian  of  the  Kollow,  as  they  sometimes 
called  him.  He  would  delight  them  equally  by 
his  anecdotes  of  witchcraft,  and  of  the  direful 
omens  and  portentous  sights  and  sounds  in  the 
air,  which  prevailed  in  the  earlier  times  of  Con 
necticut  ;  and  would  frighten  them  wofully  with 
speculations  upon  comets  and  shooting  stars,  and 
with  the  alarming  fact  that  the  world  did  abso 
lutely  turn  round,  and  that  they  were  half  the 
time  topsy-turvy  ! 

But  if  there  was  a  pleasure  in  all  this,  while 
snugly  cuddling  in  the  chimney-corner  of  a  cham 
ber  that  was  all  of  a  ruddy  glow  from  the  crack 
ling  wood-fire,  and  where,  of  course,  no  spectre 
dared  to  show  his  face,  it  was  dearly  purchased 
by  the  terrors  of  his  subsequent  walk  homewards. 
tVliat  fearful  shapes  and  shadows  beset  his  path 
amidst  the  dim  and  ghastly  glare  of  a  snowy 
night !  —  With  what  wistful  look  did  he  eye  every 
trembling  ray  of  light  streaming  across  the  waste 
fields  from  some  distant  window  !  —  How  often 


4G4  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

was  he  appalled  by  some  shrub  covered  with 
snow,  wl.ich,  like  a  sheeted  spectre,  beset  his  very 
path  !  —  How  often  did  he  shrink  with  curdling 
awe  at  the  sound  of  his  own  steps  on  the  frosty 
crust  beneath  his  feet ;  and  dread  to  look  over 
his  shoulder,  lest  he  should  behold  some  uncouth 
being  tramping  close  behind  him  !  —  and  how 
often  was  he  thrown  into  complete  dismay  by 
some  rushing  blast,  howling  among  the  trees,  in 
the  idea  that  it  was  the  Galloping  Hessian  on 
one  of  his  nightly  scourings  ! 

All  these,  however,  were  mere  terrors  of  tho 
night,  ghmUojns-o£..jthe  mind  that  walk  in  dark 
ness  ;  and  though  he  had  seen  many  spectres  in 
his  time,  and  been  more  than  once  beset  by  Satan 
in  divers  shapes,  in  his  lonely  perambulations,  yet 
daylight  put  au  end  to  all  these  evils ;  and  he 
would  have  passed  a  pleasant  life  of  it,  in  despite 
of  the  devil  and  all  his  works,  if  his  path  had  not 
been  crossed  by  a  being  that  causes  more  per 
plexity  to  mortal  man  than  ghosts,  goblins,  and 
the  whole  race  of  witches  put  together,  and  that 
was — a  woman. 

Among  the  musical  disciples  who  assembled, 
one  evening  in  each  week,  to  receive  his  instruc 
tions  in -psalmody,  was  Katriua  Van  Tassel,  the 
daughter,  and  only  child  of  a  substantial  Dutch 
farmer.  She  was  a  blooming  lass  of  fresh  eigh 
teen ;  plump  as  a  partridge;  ripe  and  melting 
and  rosy-cheeked  as  one  of  her  father's  peaches, 
and  universally  famed,  not  merely  for  her  beauty, 
but  her  vast  expectations.  She  was  withal  a  littlo 
of  a  coquette,  as  might  be  perceived  even  in  her 


THE  LEGEXD  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.    465 

dress,  which  was  a  mixture  of  ancient  and  mod 
ern  fashions,  as  most  suited  to  set  off  her  charm? 
She  wore  the  ornaments  of  pure  yellow  gold, 
which  her  great-great-grandmother  had  broiighl 
over  from  Saardam  ;  the  tempting  stomacher  of 
the  olden  time ;  and  withal  a  provokingly  short 
petticoat,  to  display  the  prettiest  foot  and  ankle  ill 
the  country  round. 

Ichabod  Crane  had  a  soft  and  foolish  heart 
towards  the  8ex ;  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at 
that  so  tempting  a  morsel  soon  found  favor  in  liia 
eyes ;  more  especially  after  he  had  visited  her  in 
her  paternal  mansion.  Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel 
was  a  perfect  picture  of  a  thriving,  contented, 
liberal-hearted  farmer.  He  seldom,  it  is  true,  sent 
either  his  eyes  or  his  thoughts  beyond  the  boun 
daries  of  his  own  farm  ;  but  within  those  every 
thing  was  snug,  huppy,  and  well-conditioned.  He 
was  satisfied  with  his  wealth,  but  not  proud  of  it ; 
and  piqued  himself  upon  the  hearty  abundance 
rather  than  the  style  in  which  he  lived.  Hia 
stronghold  was  situated  on  the  banks  of  the  Hud 
son,  in  one  of  those  green,  sheltered,  fertile  nooks 
in  which  the  Dutch  farmers  are  so  fond  of  nest 
ling.  A  great  elm-tree  spread  its  broad  branches 
over  it ;  at  the  foot  of  which  bubbled  up  a  spring 
of  the  softest  and  sweetest  water,  in  a  little  well, 
formed  of  a  barrel ;  and  then  stole  spai  "ding 
nway  through  the  grass,  to  a  neighboring  brook, 
that  bubbled  along  among  alders  and  dwarf  wil 
lows.  Hard  by  the  farm-house  was  a  vast  barn; 
that  might  have  served  for  a  church ;  every  win 
dow  and  crevice  of  which  seemed  bursting  forth 
30 


^66  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

with  thu  treasures  of  the  farm ;  the  £aii  waj 
busily  resounding  within  it  from  morning  till 
night ;  swallows  and  martins  skimmed  twittering 
about  the  eaves ;  and  rows  of  pigeons,  some  with 
one  eye  turned  up,  as  if  watching  the  weather, 
eome  with  their  heads  under  their  wings,  or 
buried  in  their  bosoms,  and  others  swelling,  and 
cooing,  and  bowing  about  their  dames,  were  en 
joying  the  sunshine  on  the  roof.  Sleek  unwieldlj 
porkers  were  grunting  in  the  repose  and  abun 
dance  of  their  pens  ;  whence  sallied  forth,  now 
and  then,  troops  of  sucking  pigs,  as  if  to  snuff 
the  air.  A  stately  squadron  of  snowy  geese  were 
riding  in  an  adjoining  pond,  convoying  whole 
fleets  of  ducks  ;  regiments  of  turkeys  were  gob 
bling  through  the  farm-yard,  and  guinea  fowls 
fretting  about  it,  like  ill-tempered  housewives, 
with  their  peevish  discontented  cry.  Before  the 
barn-door  strutted  the  gallant  cock,  that  pattern 
of  a  husband,  a  warrior,  and  a  fine  gentleman, 
clapping  his  burnished  wings,  and  crowing  in  the 
pride  and  gladness  of  his  heart  —  sometimes  tear 
ing  up  the  earth  with  his  feet,  and  then  gener 
ously  calling  his  ever-hungry  family  of  wives  and 
children  to  enjoy  the  rich  morsel  which  he  had 
discovered. 

The  pedagogue's  mouth  watered,  as  he  looked 
upon  this  sumptuous  promise  of  luxurious  winter 
fare.  In  his  devouring  mind's  eye  he  pictured 
to  himself  every  roasting-pig  running  about  with 
a  pudding  in  his  belly,  and  an  apple  in  his  mouth  j 
the  pigeons  were  snugly  put  to  bed  in  a  comfort 
able  pie,  and  tucked  in  with  a  coverlet  of  crust 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.   467 

the  geese  were  swimming  in  their  own  gravy ;  and 
the  ducks  pairing  cosily  in  dishes,  like  snug  mar 
ried  couples,  with  a  decent  competency  of  onion- 
snucc.  In  tlve  porkers  he  saw  carved  out  tho 
future  sleek  side  of  bacon,  and  juicy  relishing 
ham  ;  not  a  turkey  but  he  beheld  daintily  trussed 
up,  with  its  gizzard  under  its  wing,  and,  perad- 
venture,  a  necklace  of  savory  sausages  ;  and  even 
bright  chanticleer  himself  lay  sprawling  on  hia 
back,  in  a  side-dish,  with  uplifted  cluws,  as  if 
craving  that  quarter  which  his  chivalrous  spirit 
disdained  to  ask  while  living. 

As  the  enraptured  Ichabod  fancied  all  this,  aim 
as    he  rolled  his  great  green  eyes  over  the  fat 
meadow-lands,  the  rich  fields  of  wheat,  of  rye,  of 
buckwheat,  and  Indian  corn,  and  the  orchard  bur 
dened  with    ruddy  fruit,  which    surrounded    the 
warm  tenement  of  Van  Tassel,  his  heart  yearned 
alter  the  damsel  who  was  to  inherit  these  domains, 
and  his  imagination  expanded  with  the  idea  how 
they  might  be  readily  turned  into  cash,  and  the 
money  invested  in  immense   tracts  of  wild  land, 
and  shingle  palaces  in  the  wilderness.     Nay,  his 
busy  fancy  already  realized  his  hopes,  and  pre 
sented  to  him  the  blooming  Katrina,  with  a  wholo    / 
family  of  children,  mounted  on  the  top  of  a  wagoa   / 
loaded  with  household  trumpery,  with  pots  and  I 
kettles  dangling  beneath;  and  he  beheld  himself  I 
bestriding  a  pacing  mare,  with  a  colt  at  her  heels,  I 
setting  out  for  Kentucky,  Tennessee,  or  the  Lord 
knows  "where. 

When  he  entered  the  house,  the  conquest  of 
his  heart  was  complete.    It  was  one  of  those  spa« 


468  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

uious  farm-houses,  with  high-ridged,  but  lowly- 
sloping  roofs,  built  in  the  style  handed  down  from 
the  first  Dutch  settlers;  the  low  projecting  cave* 
forming  a  pia/.za  along  the  front,  capable  of  being 
closed  up  in  bad  weather.  Under  this  were  hung 
flails,  harness,  various  utensils  of  husbandry,  and 
nets  for  fishing  in  the  neighboring  river.  Benches 
were  built  along  the  sides  for  summer  use ;  and 
a  great  spinning-wheel  at  one  end,  and  a  churn 
at  the  other,  showed  the  various  uses  to  which 
this  important  porch  might  be  devoted.  From 
this  piazza  the  wondering  Ichabod  entered  the 
hull,  which  formed  the  centre  of  the  mansion  and 
the  place  of  usual  residence.  Here,  rows  of  re 
splendent  pewter,  ranged  on  a,  long  dresser,  daz 
zled  his  eyes.  In  one  corner  stood  a  huge  bag  of 
wool  ready  to  be  spun ;  in  another  a  quantity  of 
linsey-woolsey  just  from  the  loom;  ears  of  Indian 
corn,  and  strings  of  dried  apples  and  peaches, 
hung  in  gay  festoons  along  the  walls,  mingled 
with  the  gaud  of  red  peppers ;  and  a  door  left 
ajar  gave  him  a  peep  into  the  best  parlor,  where 
the  claw-footed  chairs  and  dark  mahogany  tables 
shone  like  mirrors  ;  and.  irons,  with  their  accom 
panying  shovel  and  tongs,  glistened  from  theijf 
covert  of  asparagus  tops  ;  mock-oranges  and  conch- 
shells  decorated  the  mantel-piece  ;  strings  of  va« 
rious  colored  birds'  ejrgs  were  suspended  above  it, 
a  great  ostrich  egg  was  hung  from  the  centre  of 
the  room,  and  a  corner-cupboard,  knowingly  left 
open,  displayed  immense  treasures  of  old  silver 
and  well- mended  china. 

From  the  moment  Ichabod  laid  his  eyes  upon 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.    469 

these  regions  of  delight,  the  peace  of  his  mind 
was  nt  an  end,  and  his  only  study  was  how  to 
gain  the  affections  of  the  peerless  daughter  of 
Van  Tassel.  In  this  enterprise,  however,  he  had 
more  real  difficulties  than  generally  fell  to  the 
lot  of  a  knight-errant  of  yore,  who  seldom  had 
anything  but  giants,  enchanters,  fiery  dragons,  and 
euch  like  easily  conquered  adversaries,  to  contend 
with ;  and  had  to  make  his  way  merely  through 
gates  of  iron  and  brass,  and  walls  of  adamant,  to 
the  castle-keep,  where  the  lady  of  his  heart  was 
confined ;  all  which  he  achieved  as  easily  as  a 
man  would  carve  his  way  to  the  ceuure  cf  a 
Christmas  pie ;  and  then  the  lady  gave  him  her 
hand  as  a  matter  of  course.  Ichabod,  on  the 
contrary,  had  to  win  his  way*  to  the  henrt  of  a 
country  coquette,  beset  with  a  labyrinth  of  whims 
and  caprices,  which  were  forever  presenting  pew 
difficulties  and  impediments  ;  and  he  had  to  en 
counter  a  host  of  fearful  adversaries  of  real  flesh 
and  blood,  the  numerous  rustic  admirers,  who  be 
set  every  portal  to  her  heart ;  keeping  a  watch  • 
ful  and  angry  eye  upon  each  other,  but  ready  to 
fly  out  in  the  common  cause  against  any  new 
competitor. 

Among  these  the  most  formidable  was  a  burly, 
roaring,  roistering  blade,  of  the  name  of  Abra 
ham,  or,  according  to  the  Dutch  abbreviation, 
Brom  Van  Brunt,  the  hero  of  the  country  round, 
which  rang  with  his  feats  of  strength  and  hardi 
hood.  He  was  broad  -  shouldered,  and  double- 
jointed,  with  short  curly  black  hair,  and  a  bluff 
but  not  unpleasant  countenance,  having  a  mingled 


470  THE  SKETCH-LOOK. 

air  of  fun  and  arrogance.  From  his  Herculean 
frame  and  great  powers  of  limb,  he  had  received 
the  nickname  of  13 ROM  BONES,  by  which  he  \\aa 
universally  known.  He  was  famed  for  great 
knowledge  and  skill  in  horsemanship,  being  aa 
dexterous  on  horseback  as  a  Tartar.  He  was 
foremost  at  all  races  and  cockfights  ;  and,  with 
the  ascendency  which  bodily  strength  acquires  in 
rustic  life,  was  the  umpire  in  all  disputes,  setting 
his  hat  on  one  side,  and  giving  his  decisions  with 
an  air  and  tone  admitting  of  no  gainsay  or  appeal. 
He  was  always  ready  for  either  a  fight  or  a  frolic; 
but  had  more  mischief  than  ill-will  in  his  com 
position  ;  and,  with  all  his  overbearing  roughness, 
there  was  a  strong  dash  of  waggisli  good-humor 
at  bottom.  He  had  three  or  four  boon  compan 
ions,  who  regarded  him  as  their  model,  and  at 
the  head  of  whom  he  scoured  the  country,  attend 
ing  every  scene  of  feud  or  merriment  for  miles 
round.  In  cold  weather  he  was  distinguished  by 
a  fur  cap,  surmounted  with  a  flaunting  fox's  tail ; 
and  when  the  folks  at  a  country  gathering  de 
scried  this  well-known  crest  at  a  distance,  whisk 
ing  about  among  a  squad  of  hard  riders,  they 
always  stood  by  for  a  squall.  Sometimes  his  crew 
would  be  heard  dashing  along  past  the  farm 
houses  at  midnight,  with  whoop  and  halloo,  like 
a  troop  of  Don  Cossacks ;  and  the  old  dames, 
startled  out  of  their  sleep,  would  listen  for  a  mo 
ment  till  the  hurry-scurry  had  clattered  by,  and 
then  exclaim,  "  Ay,  there  goes  Brom  Bones  ami 
his  gang !  "  The  neighbors  looked  upon  him  with 
a  mixture  of.  awe,  admiration,  and  good -will} 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW-    471 

and  when  any  madcap  prank,  or  rustic  brawl; 
occurred  in  the  vicinity,  always  shook  their  heads, 
and  warranted  Brorn  Bones  was  at  the  bottom 
of  it. 

This  rantipole  hero  had  for  some  time  singled 
O'it  the  blooming  Ka^rina  for  the  object  of  his 
uncoil '.h  gallantries  ;  and  though  his  amorous  toy- 
ings  were  something  like  the  gentle  caresses  and 
endearments  of  a  bear,  yet  it  was  whispered  that 
she  did  not  altogether  discourage  his  hopes.  Cer 
tain  it  is,  his  advances  were  signals  for  rival  can 
didates  to  retire,  who  felt  no  inclination  to  croaa 
a  lion  in  his  amours  ;  insomuch,  that,  when  his 
horse  was  seen  tied  to  Van  Tassel's  paling,  :n  p. 
Sunday  night,  a  sure  sign  that  his  master  was 
courting,  or,  as  it  is  termed,  "  sparking/'  within, 
all  other  suitors  passed  by  in  despair,  and  carried 
the  war  into  other  quarters. 

Such  was  the  formidable  rival  with  whom 
Ichabod  Crane  had  to  contend,  and,  considering 
all  things,  a  stouter  man  than  he  would  have 
shrunk  from  the  competition,  and  a  wiser  man 
would  have  despaired.  lie  had,  however,  a  happy 
mixture  of  pliability  and  perseverance  in  his  na 
ture  ;  he  was  in  form  and  spirit  like  a  supple 
jack  —  yielding,  but  tough ;  though  he  bent,  he 
never  broke  ;  and  though  he  bowed  beneath  the 
slightest  pressure,  yet,  the  moment  it  was  away 
•—  jerk !  he  was  as  erect,  and  carried  his  head  aa 
high  as  ever. 

To  have  taken  the  field  openly  against  his  rival 
would  have  been  madness;  for  he  was  not  a  man 
to  be  thwarted  in  his  amours,  any  mere  than  that 


472  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

stormy  lover,  Achilles.  Ichabod,  therefore,  inada 
his  advances  in  a  quiet  and  gently  insinuating 
manner.  Under  cover  of  his  character  of  sing 
ing-master,  he  had  made  frequent  visits  at  the 
farm-house  ;  not  that  he  had  anything  to  appre 
hend  from  the  meddlesome  interference  of  par 
ents,  which  is  so  often  a  stumbling-block  in  the 
path  of  lovers.  Bait  Van  Tassel  was  an  easy, 
indulgent  soul ;  he  loved  his  daughter  better  even 
than  his  pipe,  and,  like  a  reasonable  man  and  an 
excellent  father,  let  her  have  her  way  in  every 
thing.  His  notable  little  wife,  too,  had  enough 
to  do  to  attend  to  her  housekeeping  and  manage 
her  poultry ;  for,  as  she  sagely  observed,  ducks 
and  geese  are  foolish  things,  and  must  be  looked 
after,  but  girls  can  take  care  of  themselves. 
Thus  while  the  busy  dame  bustled  about  the 
house,  or  plied  her  spinning-wheel  at  one  end  of 
the  piazza,  honest  Bait  would  sit  smoking  his 
evening  pipe  at  the  other,  watching  the  achieve 
ments  of  a  little  wooden  warrior,  who,  armed 
with  a  sword  in  each  hand,  was  most  valiantly 
fighting  the  wind  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  barn.  In 
the  mean  time,  Ichabod  would  carry  on  his  suit 
with  the  daughter  by  the  side  of  the  spring  un 
der  the  great  elm,  or  sauntering  along  in  the  twi 
light,  —  that  hour  so  favorable  to  the  lover's  clo 
quence. 

I  profess  not  to  know  how  women's  hearts  are 
wooed  and  won.     To  me  they  have  always  been 
matters  of  riddle  and  admiration.     Souxj  seem  to 
have  but  one  vulnerable  point,  or  door  of  access 
while  others  have  a  thousand  avenues,  and  may 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.   473 

bo  captured  in  a  thousand  different  Avays.  It  ia 
a  great  triumph  of  skill  to  gain  the  former,  but  a 
btill  greater  proof  of  generalship  to  maintain  pos* 
session  of  the  latter,  for  the  man  must  battle  for 
his  fortress  at  every  door  and  Avindow.  He  who 
wins  a  thousand  common  hearts  is  therefore  en 
titled  to  some  renown :  but  he  who  keeps  undis 
puted  sway  over  the  heart  of  a  coquette,  is  in 
deed  a  hero.  Certain  it  is,  this  was  not  the  case 
with  the  redoubtable  Brom  Bones ;  and  from 
the  moment  Ichabod  Crane  made  his  advances, 
the  interests  of  the  former  evidently  declined ;  his 
horse  Avas  no  longer  seen  tied  at  the  palings  on 
Sunday  nights,  and  a  deadly  feud  gradually  arose 
betAveen  him  and  the  preceptor  of  Sleepy  Hol 
low. 

Brom,  who  had  a  degree  of  rough  chivalry  in 
his  nature,  would  fain  have  carried  matters  to 
open  warfare,  and  have  settled  their  pretensions 
to  the  lady  according  to  the  mode  of  those  most 
concise  and  simple  reasoners,  the  knights-errant 
of  yore  —  by  single  combat ;  but  Ichabod  was 
too  conscious  of  the  superior  might  of  his  adver 
sary  to  enter  the  lists  against  him :  he  had  over 
heard  a  boast  of  Bones,  that  he  would  "  double 
the  schoolmaster  upland  lay  him  on  a  shelf  of 
his  own  school-house ; "  and  he  Avas  too  Avary  to 
give  him  an  opportunity.  There  Avas  something 
extremely  proA'oking  in  this  obstinately  pacific 
system ;  it  left  Brom  no  alternative  but  to  draw 
upon  the  funds  of  rustic  Avaggery  in  his  disposi 
tion,  and  to  play  off  boorish  practical  jolies  upon 
his  rival.  Ichabod  became  the  object  of  Avhiossi 


174  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

cal  persecution  to  Bones  and  his  gang  of  rough 
riders.  They  harried  his  hitherto  peaceful  do 
mains  ;  smoked  out  his  singing-school,  by  stop 
ping  up  the  chimney;  broke  into  the  school-house 
at  night,  in  spite  of  its  formidable  fastenings  of 
withe  and  window-stakes,  and  turned  everything 
toppy-turvy  :  so  that  the  poor  schoolmaster  began 
to  think  all  the  witches  in  the  country  held 
their  meetings  there.  But  what  was  still  more 

O 

annoying,  "Brom  took  opportunities  of  turning  him 
into  ridicule  in  presence  of  his  mistress,  and  had 
a  scoundrel  do;r  whom  he  taught  to  whine  in  the 
most  ludicrous  manner,  and  introduced  as  a  rival 
of  Ichnliod's  to  instruct  her  in  psalmody. 

In  this  wav  matters  went  on  for  some  time, 
without  producing  any  material  effect  on  the  rela 
tive  situation  o'  the  contending  powers.  On  a 
fine  autumnal  afternoon,  Ichabod,  in  pensive 
mood,  sat  enthroned  on  the  lofty  stool  whence  he 
usu.".llv  watchc-il  all  the  concerns  of  his  little 
literary  realm.  In  his  hand  he  swayed  a 
ferule,  that  scerrtre  of  despotic  power ;  the  birch 
ol  nistice  reposed  on  three  nails,  behind  the 
throne,  a  constant  terror  to  evil-doers  ;  while  on 
the  desk  before  him  might  be  seen  sundry  con 
traband  articles  and  prohibited  weapons,  detected 
upon  the  persons  of  idle  urchins  ;  such  as  half- 
munched  apples,  popguns,  whirligigs,  fly-cages, 
and  whole  legions  of  rampant  little  paper  game 
cocks.  Apparently  there  had  been  some  appall 
ing  act  of  justice  recently  inflicted,  for  his  schol 
ars  were  all  busily  indent  upon  their  books,  ol 
slyly  whispering  behind  them  with  one  eye  kepi 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.    475 

flpon  the  master;  and  a  kind  of  buzzing  still- 
ness  reigned  throughout  the  school-room.  It  was 
suddenly  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  u  ne 
gro,  in  tow-cloth  jacket  and  trousers,  a  round- 
crowned  fragment  of  a  hat,  like  the  cap  of  Mer 
cury,  and  mounted  on  the  back  of  a  ragged,  wild, 
half-broken  colt,  which  he  managed  with  a  ropo 
by  way  of  halter.  He  came  clattering  up  to  tho 
school-door  with  an  invitation  to  Ichabod  to  at 
tend  a  merry-making  or  "  quilting  frolic,"  to  be 
held  that  evening  at  Mynheer  Van  Tassel's ;  and 
having  delivered  his  message  with  that  air  of  im 
portance,  and  effort  at  fine  language,  which  a  ne 
gro  is  apt  to  display  on  petty  embassies  of  the 
kind,  he  dashed  over  the  brook,  and  was  seen 
scampering  away  up  the  Hollow,  full  of  the  im 
portance  and  hurry  of  his  mission. 

All  was  now  bustle  and  hubbub  in  the  'late 
qniet  school -room.  The  scholars  were  hurried 
through  their  lessons,  without  stopping  at  trifles  ; 
those  who  were  nimble  skipped  over  half  with 
impunity,  and  those  who  were  tardy  had  a  smart 
application  now  and  then  in  the  rear,  to  quicken 
their  speed,  or  help  them  over  a  tall  word.  Books 
were  flung  aside  without  being  put  away  on  tho 
shelves,  inkstands  were  overturned,  benches  thrown 
down,  and  the  whole  school  was  turned  loose  an 
hour  before  the  usual  time,  bursting  forth  like 
a  legion  of  young  imps,  yelping  and  racketing 
about  the  green,  in  joy  at  their  early  emancipa 
tion. 

The  gallant  Ichabod  now  spent  at  least  an  ex 
tra  half-hour  at  his  toilet,  brushing  and  furbishing 


470  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

up  his  best  and  indeed  only  suit  of  rusty  black, 
and  arranging  his  looks  by  a  bit  of  broken  look 
ing-glass,  that  hung  up  in  the  school-house.  Thai 
he  might  make  his  appearance  before  his  mistress 
in  the  true  style  of  a  cavalier,  he  borrowed  a 
horse  from  the  farmer  with  whom  he  was  domi- 
ciliated,  a  choleric  old  Dutchman,  of  the  name 
of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and,  thus  gallantly  mounted, 
issued  forth,  like  a  knight-errant  in  quest  of  ad 
ventures.  But  it  is  meet  I  should,  in  the  true 
spirit  of  romantic  story,  «give  some  account  of 
the  looks  and  equipments  of  my  hero  and  his 
steed.  The  animal  he  bestrode  was  a  broken- 
down  plough-horse,  that  had  outlived  almost  ev 
erything  but  his  viciousness.  lie  was  gaunt  and 
shagged,  with  a  ewe  neck  and  a  head  like  a  ham 
mer  ;  his  rusty  mane  and  tail  were  tangled  and 
knotted  with  burrs ;  one  eye  had  lost  its  pupil, 
and  was  glaring  and  spectral  ;  but  the  other  had 
the  gleam  of  a  genuine  devil  in  it.  Still  he  must 
have  had  fire  and  mettle  in  his  day,  if  we  may 
judge  from  the  name  he  bore  of  Gunpowder. 
He  had,  in  fact,  been  a  favorite  steed  of  his  mas 
ter's,  the  choleric  Van  Ripper,  who  was  a  furious 
rider,  and  had  infused,  very  probably,  some  of 
his  own  spirit  into  the  animal;  for,  old  and 
broken-down  as  he  looked,  there  was  more  of  the 
lurking  devil  in  him  than  in  any  young  filly  iffi 
the  country. 

Ichabod  was  a  suitable  figure  for  such  a  steed 
He  rode  with  short  stirrups,  which  brought  hid 
knees  nearly  up  to  the  pommel  of  the  saddle ;  Ins 
sharp  elbows  stuck  out  like  grasshoppers' ;  he  car* 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  477 

rice!  his  whiji  perpendicularly  in  his  hand,  like  a 
sceptre,  and,  as  his  horse  jogged  on,  the  motion  of 
his  arms  was  not  unlike  the  flapping  of  a  pair  of 
wings.  A  small  wool  hat  rested  on  the  top  of 
his  nose,  for  so  his  scanty  strip  of  forehead  might 
be  called ;  and  the  skirts  of  his  black  coat  flut 
tered  out  almost  to  the  horse's  tail.  Such  was 
the  appearance  of  Ichabod  and  his  steed,  as  they 
shambled  out  of  the  gate  of  Hans  Van  Kipper, 
and  it  was  altogether  such  an  apparition  as  is  sel 
dom  to  be  met  with  in  broad  daylight. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  fine  autumnal  day,  the 
sky  was  clear  and  serene,  and  nature  wore  that 
rich  and  golden  livery  which  we  always  associate 
with  the  idea  of  abundance.  The  forests  had  put 
on  their  sober  brown  and  yellow,  while  some  trees 
of  the  tenderer  kind  had  been  nipped  by  the  frosts 
into  brilliant  dyes  of  orange,  prtrple,  and  scarlet. 
Streaming  files  of  wild  ducks  began  to  make  their 
appearance  high  in  the  air  ;  the  bark  of  the 
squirrel  might  be  heard  from  the  groves  of  beech 
and  hickory  nuts,  and  the  pensive  whistle  of  the 
quail  at  intervals  from  the  neighboring  stubble- 
add. 

The  small  birds  were  taking  their  farewell  ban 
quets.  In  tlio  fulness  of  their  revelry,  they  flut 
tered,  chirping  and  frolicking,  from  bush  to  bush, 
and  tree  to  tree,  capricious  from  the  very  profu 
sion  and  variety  around  them.  There  was  tho 
honcit  cockrobin,  the  favorite  game  of  stripling 
sportsmen,  with  its  loud  querulous  notes  ;  and 
the  twittering  blackbirds  flying  in  sable  clouds  ; 
and  the  golden-winged  woodpecker,  with  his  crim« 


478  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

•on  crest,  his  broad  black  gorget,  and  s 
plumage ;  and  the  cedar  -  bird,  with  its  red-tipt 
wings  and  yellow-tipt  tail,  and  its  little  monleiwj 
cap  of  feathers ;  and  the  blue  jay,  that  noisy 
coxcomb,  in  his  gay  light-blue  coat  and  white 
undcr-clothes,  screaming  and  chattering,  nodding 
and  bobbing  and  bowing,  and  pretending  to  be  on 
good  terms  with  every  songster  of  the  grove. 

As  Ichabod  jogged  slowly  on  his  way,  his  eye, 
ever  open  to  every  symptom  of  culinary  abun 
dance,  ranged  with  delight  over  the  treasures  of 
jolly  autumn.  On  all  sides  he  beheld  vast  store 
of  apples ;  some  hanging  in  oppressive  opulence 
on  the  trees ;  some  gathered  into  baskets  and  bar 
rels  for  the  market ;  others  heaped  up  in  rich 
piles  for  the  cider-press.  Farther  on  he  beheld 
great  fields  of  Indian  corn,  with  its  golden  cars 
peeping  from  theiv  leafy  coverts,  and  holding  out 
the  promise  of  cakes  and  hasty-pudding  ;  and  the 
yellow  pumpkins  lying  beneath  them,  turning  up 
then-  fan-  round  bellies  to  the  sun,  and  giving  am 
ple  prospects  of  the  most  luxurious  of  pies  ;  and 
anon  he  passed  the  fragrant  buckwheat  fields, 
breathing  the  odor  of  the  bee-hive,  and  as  he  be 
held  them,  soft  anticipations  stole  over  his  mind 
of  dainty  slapjacks,  well  buttered,  and  garnished 
with  honey  or  treacle,  by  the  delicate  little  dim* 
pled  hand  of  Katrina  Van  Tassel. 

Thus  feeding  his  mind  with  many  sweet 
thoughts  and  "sugared  supposition?,"  he  jour 
neyed  along  the  sides  of  a  range  of  hills  which 
look  out  upon  seme  of  the  goodliest  scenes  of  the 
(nighty  Hudson.  The  sun  gradually  wheeled  kid 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  479 

broad  disk  down  into  the  west.  The  wide1,  bogora 
of  the  Tappan  Zee  lay  motionless  and  glossy,  ex 
cepting  that  here  and  there  a  gentle  undulation 
waved  and  prolonged  the  blue  shadow  of  the  dis 
taut  mountain.  A  few  amber  clouds  floated  in 
the  sky,  without  a  breath  of  air  to  move  them. 
The  horizon  was  of  a  fine  golden  tint,  changing 
gradually  into  a  pure  apple-green,  and  from  that 
into  the  deep  blue  of  the  mid-heaven.  A  slanting 
ray  Lingered  on  the  woody  crests  of  the  precipices 
that  overhung  some  parts  of  the  river,  giving 
greater  depth  to  the  dark-gray  and  purple  of  their 
rocky  sides.  A  sloop  was  loitering  in  the  dis 
tance,  dropping  slowly  down  with  the  tide,  her 
sail  hanging  uselessly  against  the  mast ;  and  aa 
the  reflection  of  the  sky  gleamed  along  the  still 
water,  it  seemed  as  if  the  vessel  was  suspended 
in  the  air. 

It  was  toward  evening  that  Ichabod  arrived  at 
the  castle  of  the  Heer  Van  Tassel,  which  he  found 
thronged  with  the  pride  and  flower  of  the  adja 
cent  country.  Old  farmers,  a  spare  leathern-faced 
race,  in  homespun  coats  and  breeches,  blue  stock 
ings,  huge  shoes,  and  magnificent  pewter  buckles, 
Their  brisk  withered  little  dames,  in  close  crimped 
caps,  long-waisted  shortgowns,  homespun  petti 
coats,  with  scissors  and  pincushions,  and  gay  cal 
ico  pockets  hanging  on  the  outside.  Buxom  lasses, 
almost  as  antiquated  as  their  mothers,  excepting 
where  a  straw  hat,  a  fine  ribboi.,  or  perhaps  & 
white  frock,  gave  symptoms  of  city  innovation. 
The  sons,  in  short  square-skirted  roats  with  rows 
of  stupendous  brass  buttons,  and  their  hair  gen 


480  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

erally  queued  in  the  fashion  of  the  times,  espe 
cially  it'  they  could  procure  an  eel-skin  for  the 
purpose,  it  being  esteemed,  throughout  the  coun 
try,  as  a  potent  nourisher  and  strengthener  of  the 
liair. 

Brom  Bones,  however,  was  the  hero  of  the 
scene,  having  come  to  the  gathering  on  his  favor 
ite  steed,  Daredevil,  a  creature,  like  himself,  full 
of  mettle  and  mischief,  and  which  no  one  but 
himself  could  manage.  He  was,  in  fact,  noted 
for  preferring  vicious  animals,  given  to  all  kinds 
of  tricks,  which  kept  the  rider  in  constant  risk 
of  his  neck,  for  he  held  a  tractable  well-broken 
horse  as  unworthy  of  a  lad  of  spirit. 

Fain  would  I  pause  to  dwell  upon  the  world 
of  charms  that  burst  upon  the  enraptured  gaze 
of  my  hero,  as  he  entered  the  state  parlor  of  Van 
Tassel's  mansion.  Not  those  of  the  bevy  of  bux 
om  lasses,  with  their  luxurious  display  of  red  and 
white ;  but  the  ample  charms  of  a  genuine  Dutch 
country  tea-table,  in  the  sumptuous  time  of  ati 
tuffia.  Such  heaped-up  platters  of  cakes  of  vari 
ous  and  almost  indescribable  kinds,  known  only 
to  experienced  Dutch  housewives !  There  was 
the  doughty  doughnut,  the  tenderer  oly  kock,  and 
the  crisp  and  crumbling  cruller ;  sweet  cakes  and 
short  cakes,  ginger-cakes  and  honey-cakes,  and 
the  v? hole  family  of  cakes.  And  then  there  were 
apple-pies  and  peach-pies  and  pumpkin-pies  ;  be 
sides  slices  of  ham  and  smoked  beef;  and  more 
over  delectable  dishes  of  preserved  plums,  and 
peaches,  and  pears,  and  quinces ;  not  to  mention 
broiled  shad  and  roasted  chickens  ;  together  with 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.   481 

*>owls  of  milk  and  cream,  all  mingled  liiggledy- 
piggledy,  pretty  much  as  I  have  enumerated 
them,  with  the  motherly  tea-pot  sending  up  its 
clouds  of  vapor  from  the  midst  —  Heaven  bless 
the  mark  !  I  want  breath  and  time  to  discuss 
this  banquet  as  it  deserves,  and  am  too  eager  to 
get  on  with  my  story.  Happily,  Ichabod  Crano 
was  not  in  so  great  a  hurry  as  his  historian,  but 
did  ample  justice  to  every  dainty. 

He  was  a  kind  and  thankful  creature,  whose 
heart  dilated  in  proportion  as  his  skin  was  filled 
with  good  cheer  ;  and  whose  spirits  rose  with  eat 
ing  as  some  men's  do  with  drink.  He  could  not 
h<jlp,  too,  rolling  his  large  eyes  round  him  as  he 
ate,  and  chuckling  with  the  possibility  that  he 
might  one  day  be  lord  of  all  this  scene  of  almost 
unimaginable  luxury  and  splendor.  Then,  he 
thought,  how  soon  he'd  turn  his  back  upon  the 
old  school-house ;  snap  his  fingers  in  the  face  of 
Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  every  other  niggardly  pa 
tron,  and  kick  any  itinerant  pedagogue  out-of- 
doors  that  should  dare  to  call  him  comrade ! 

Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  moved  about  among 
his  guests  with  a  face  dilated  with  content  and 
good-humor,  round  and  jolly  as  the  harvest-moon. 
His  hospitable  attentions  were  brief,  but  expres 
sive,  being  confined  to  a  shake  of  the  hand,  a  slap 
on  the  shoulder,  a  loud  laugh,  and  a  pressing  in 
vitation  to  "  fall  to,  and  help  themselves." 

And  now  the  sound  of  the  music  from  the  com 
mon  room,  or  hall,  summoned  to  the  dance.  The 
musician  was  an  old  gray-headed  negro,  who  had 
been  tbe  itinerant  orchestra  of  the  neighborhood 
31 


482  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

for  more  than  half  a  century.  His  instrument 
was  as  old  and  battered  as  himself.  The  greatei 
part  of  the  time  he  scraped  on  two  or  three  strings, 
accompanying  every  movement  of  the  bow  with  a 
motion  of  the  head  ;  bowing  almost  to  the  ground, 
and  stamping  with  his  foot  whenever  a  fresh  coupli 
\t  ere  to  start. 

Ichabod  prided  himself  upon  his  dancing  as  much 
as  upon  his  vocal  powers.  Not  a  lirnb,  not  a  fibre 
about  him  was  idle  ;  and  to  have  seen  his  loosely 
hung  frame  in  full  motion,  and  clattering  about  the 
room,  you  would  have  thought  Saint  Vitus  himself, 
that  blessed  patron  of  the  dance,  was  figuring  be 
fore  you  in  person.  He  was  the  admiration  of  all 
the  negroes ;  who,  having  gathered,  of  all  ages  and 
sizes,  from  the  farm  and  the  neighborhood,  stood 
forming  a  pyramid  of  shining  black  faces  at  every 
door  and  window,  gazing  with  delight  at  the  scene, 
rolling  their  white  eyeballs,  and  showing  grinning 
rows  of  ivory  from  ear  to  ear.  How  could  the 
flogger  of  urchins  be  otherwise  than  animated  and 
joyous  ?  the  lady  of  his  heart  was  his  partner  in 
the  dance,  and  smiling  graciously  in  reply  to  all  his 
amorous  oglings ;  while  Brom  Bones,  sorely  smit 
ten  with  love  and  jealousy,  sat  brooding  by  liim- 
sclf  in  one  corner. 

When  the  dance  was  at  an  end,  Ichabod  was  at 
tracted  to  a  knot  of  the  sager  folks,  who,  with  old 
Van  Tassel,  sat  smoking  at  one  end  of  the  piazza, 
gossiping  over  former  times,  and  drawing  out  long 
Btories  about  the  Avar, 

This  neighborhood,  at  the  time  cf  which  I  am 
speaking,  was  one  of  those  highly  favored  places 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  483 

which  abound  with  chronicle  and  great  men.  The 
British  and  American  line  had  run  near  it  during 
the  war  ;  it  had,  therefore,  been  the  scene  of  ma* 
rand  ing,  and  infested  with  refugees,  cow-boys,  and 
all  kinds  of  border  chivalry.  Just  sufficient  timo 
had  elapsed  to  enable  each  story-teller  to  dress  up 
his  tale  with  a  little  becoming  fiction,  and,  in  tho 
indistinctness  of  his  recollection,  to  make  himself 
the  hero  of  every  exploit. 

There  was  the  story  of  Doffue  Martling,  a  largo 
blue-bearded  Dutchman,  who  had  nearly  taken  a 
British  frigate  with  an  old  iron  nine-pounder  from 
a  mud  breastwork,  only  that  his  gun  burst  at  the 
sixth  discharge.  And  there  was  an  old  gentleman 
who  shall  be  nameless,  being  too  rich  a  mynheer  to 
be  lightly  mentioned,  who,  in  the  battle  of  White- 
plains,  being  an  excellent  master  of  defence,  par* 
ried  a  musket-ball  with  a  small  sword,  insomuch 
that  he  absolutely  felt  it  whiz  round  the  blade,  and 
glance  otf  at  the  hilt;  in  proof  of  which  he  was 
ready  at  any  time  to  show  the  sword,  with  the  hilt 
a  little  bent.  There  were  several  more  that  had 
been  equally  great  in  the  field,  not  one  of  svhom 
but  was  persuaded  that  he  had  a  considerable  hnnd 
in  bringing  the  war  to  a  happy  termination. 

But  all  these  were  nothing  to  the  tales  of  ghosta 
and  apparitions  that  succeeded.  The  neighbor 
hood  is  rich  in  legendary  treasures  of  the  kind. 
Local  tales  and  superstitions  thrive  best  in  these 
sheltered  long-settled  retreats  ;  but  are  trampled 
underfoot  by  the  shifting  throng  that  forms  tho 
population  of  most  of  our  country  places.  Besides, 
there  is  no  encouragement  for  ghosts  in  most  of  oul 


484  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

villages,  for  they  have  scarcely  had  tine  to  finish 
their  first  nap,  and  turn  themselves  in  their  graves 
before  their  surviving  friends  have  travelled  away 
from  the  neighborhood  ;  so  that  when  they  turn  out 
at  night  to  walk  their  rounds,  they  have  no  ac- 
quaintance  left  to  call  upon.  This  is  perhaps  the 
reason  why  we  so  seldom  hear  of  ghosts,  except  in 
our  long-established  Dutch  communities. 

The  immediate  cause,  however,  of  the  preva 
lence  of  supernatural  stories  in  these  parts  was 
doubtless  owing  to  the  vicinity  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 
There  was  a  contagion  in  the  very  air  that  blew 
from  that  haunted  region  ;  it  breathed  forth  an 
atmosphere  of  dreams  and  fancies  infecting  all 
the  land.  Several  of  the  Sleepy  Hollow  people 
were  present  at  Van  Tassel's,  and,  as  usual, 
were  doling  out  their  wild  and  wonderful  legends, 
Many  dismal  tales  were  told  about  funeral  trains, 
and  mourning  cries  and  wailings  heard  and  seen 
about  the  great  tree  where  the  unfortunate  Ma 
jor  Andre  was  taken,  and  which  stood  in  tho 
neighborhood.  Some  mention  was  made  also  of 
the  woman  in  white,  that  haunted  the  dark  glen 
at  Raven  Rock,  and  was  often  heard  to  shriek  on 
winter  nights  before  a  storm,  having  perished 
there  in  the  snow.  The  chief  part  of  the  stories^ 
however,  turned  upon  the  favorite  spectre  of 
Sleepy  Hollow,  the  headless  horseman,  who  had 
been  heard  several  times  of  late,  patrolling  the 
country ;  and,  it  was  said,  tethered  his  horso 
nightly  among  the  graves  in  the  churchyard. 

The  sequestered  situation  of  this  church  seema 
always  to  have  mado  it  a  favorite  haunt  of 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  483 

troubled  spirits.  It  stands  on  a  knoll,  sur« 
rounded  by  locust-trees  and  lofty  elms,  from 
among  which  its  decent  whitewashed  walls  shiru. 
modestly  forth,  like  Christian  purity  beaming, 
through  the  shades  of  retirement.  A  gentle  slopt 
descends  from  it  to  a  silver  sheet  of  water,  bor 
dered  by  high  trees,  between  Avhich,  peeps  may 
be  caught  at  the  blue  hills  of  the  Hudson.  To 
look  upon  its  grass-grown  yard,  where  the  sun 
beams  seem  to  sleep  so  quietly,  one  would  think 
that  there  at  least  the  dead  might  rest  in  peace. 
On  one  side  of  the  church  extends  a  wide  woody 
dell,  along  which  raves  a  large  brook  among 
broken  rocks  and  trunks  of  fallen  trees.  Over  a 
deep  black  part  of  the  stream,  not  far  from  tho 
church,  was  formerly  thrown  a  wooden  bridge  j 
the  road  that  led  to  it,  and  the  bridge  itself,  were 
thickly  shaded  by  overhanging  trees,  which  cast  a 
gloom  about  it.  even  in  the  daytime,  but  occa 
sioned  a  fearful  darkness  at  night.  This  was  one 
of  the  favorite  haunts  of  the  headless  horseman; 
and  the  place  where  he  was  most  frequently  en 
countered.  The  tale  was  told  of  old  Brouwer,  a 
most  heretical  disbeliever  in  ghosts,  how  he  met 
the  horseman  returning  from  his  foray  into  Sleepy 
Hollow,  and  was  obliged  to  get  up  behind  him  ; 
how  they  galloped  over  bush  and  brake,  over  liill 
and  swamp,  until  they  reached  the  bridge  ;  when 
the  horseman  suddenly  turned  into  a  skeleton, 
threw  old  Brouwcr  into  the  brook,  and  sprang 
away  over  the  tree-tops  with  a  clap  of  tli under. 

This  story  was  immediately  matched  by  a  thrice 
marvellous  adventure  of  Brom  Bones,  who  made 


486  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

light  of  the  galloping  Hessian  as  an  arrant  jockey. 
He  affirmed  that,  on  returning  one  night  IVoni  the 
neighboring  village  of  Sing  Sing,  he  had  been  over 
taken  by  this  midnight  trooper  ;  that  he  had  offered 
to  race  with  him  for  a  bowl  of  punch,  and  should 
have  won  it  too,  for  Daredevil  beat  the  goblin 
horse  all  hollow,  but,  just  as  they  came  to  the 
church-bridge,  the  Hessian  bolted,  and  vanished 
n  a  flash  of  fire. 

All  these  tales,  told  in  that  drowsy  undertone 
with  which  men  talk  in  the  dark,  the  counte 
nances  of  the  listeners  only  now  and  then  receiv 
ing  a  casual  gleam  from  the  glare  of  a  pipe,  sank 
deep  in  the  mind  of  Ichabod.  He  repaid  them 
in  kind  with  large  extracts  from  his  invaluable 
author,  Cotton  Mather,  and  added  many  marvel 
lous  events  that  had  taken  place  in  his  native 
State  of  Connecticut,  and  fearful  sights  which 
he  had  seen  in  his  nightly  walks  about  the  Sleepy 
Hollow. 

The  revel  now  gradually  broke  up.  The  old 
farmers  gathered  together  their  families  in  their 
wagons,  and  were  heard  for  some  time  rattling 
along  the  hollow  roads,  and  over  the  distant  hills. 
Some  of  the  damsels  mounted  on  pillions  behind 
their  favorite  swains,  and  their  light-hearted 
laughter,  mingling  with  the  clatter  of  hoofs, 
echoed  along  the  silent  woodlands,  sounding 
fainter  and  fainter  until  they  gradually  died  away 
— -  and  the  late  scene  of  noise  and  frolic  was  all 
Bilent  and  deserted.  Ichabod  only  lingered  be 
hind,  according  to  the  custom  of  country  lovers, 
to  liave  a  tete-a-tete  with  the  heiress,  fully  con- 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.    487 

vincod  that  lie  was  now  on  the  high  road  to  suo 
cess.  What  passed  at  this  interview  I  will  iiot 
pretend  to  say,  for  in  fact  I  do  not  know.  Some« 
thing,  however,  I  fear  me,  must  have  gone  wrong, 
for  he  certainly  sallied  forth,  after  no  very  great 
interval,  with  an  air  quite  desolate  and  chop» 
fallen.  —  Oh,  these  women!  these  women!  Could 
that  girl  have  been  playing  off  any  of  her  coquet 
tish  tricks?  —  Was  her  encouragement  of  the 
poor  pedagogue  all  a  mere  sham  to  secure  her 
conquest  of  his  rival  ?  —  Heaven  only  knows, 
not  I !  —  L6t  it  suffice  to  say,  Ichahod  stole  forth 
with  the  air  of  one  who  had  been  sacking  a  hen 
roost,  rather  than  a  fair  lady's  heart.  Without 
looking  to  the  right  or  left  to  notice  the  scene  of 
rural  wealth  on  which  he  had  so  often  gloated, 
he  went  straight  to  the  stable,  and  with  several 
hearty  cuffs  and  kicks,  roused  his  steed  most  un- 
courtcously  from  the  comfortable  quarters  in 
which  he  was  soundly  sleeping,  dreaming  of  moun 
tains  of  corn  and  oats,  and  whole  valleys  of  timo 
thy  and  clover. 

It  was  the  very  witching  time  of  night  that 
Ichabod,  heavy-hearted  and  crestfallen,  pursued 
his  travel  homewards,  along  the  sides  of  the  lofty 
hills  which  rise  above  Tarry  Town,  and  which 
be  had  traversed  so  cheerily  in  the  afternoon. 
The  hour  was  as  dismal  as  himself.  Far  below 
him,  the  Tuppan  Zee  spread  its  dusky  and  India* 
tinct  waste  of  waters,  with  here  and  there  the 
tall  mast  of  a  sloop  riding  quietly  at  anchor  un 
der  the  land.  In  the  dead  hush  of  midnight  ha 
could  even  hear  the  barking  of  the  watch-dog 


488  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

from  the  opposite  shore  of  the  Hudson;  but  ft 
was  so  vague  and  faint  as  only  to  give  an  idea 
of  his  distance  from  this  faithful  companion  of 
man.  Now  and  then,  too,  the  long-drawn  crow 
ing  of  a  cock,  accidentally  awakened,  would 
sound  far,  far  off,  from  some  farm-house  away 
among  the  hills  —  but  it  was  like  a  dreaming 
Bound  in  his  ear.  No  signs  of  life  occurred  near 
him,  but  occasionally  the  melancholy  chirp  of 
a  cricket,  or  perhaps  the  guttural  twang  of  a 
bull-frog,  from  a  neighboring  marsh,  as  if  sleep 
ing  uncomfortably,  and  turning  sucRlenly  in  his 
bed. 

All  the  stories  of  ghosts  and  goblins  that  he 
had  heard  in  the  afternoon,  UOAV  came  crowding 
\  upon  his  recollection.  The  night  grew  darker 
and  darker ;  the  stars  seemed  to  sink  deeper  in 
the  sky,  and  driving  clouds  occasionally  hie1  them 
from  his  sight.  He  had  never  felt  so  lonely  and 
dismal.  He  was,  moreover,  approaching  the  very 
place  where  many  of  the  scenes  of  the  ghost- 
stories  had  been  laid.  In  the  centre  of  the  road 
stood  an  enormous  tulip-tree,  which  towered  like 
a  giant  above  all  the  other  trees  of  the  neighbor 
hood,  and  formed  a  kind  of  landmark.  Its  limbs 
were  gnarled,  and  fantastic,  large  enough  to  form 
trunks  for  ordinary  trees,  twisting  down  almcst  to 
the  earth,  and  rising  again  into  the  air  It  was 
connected  with  the  tragical  story  ot%  the  unfortu 
nate  Andre,  who  had  been  taken  prisoner  hard 
by ;  and  was  universally  known  by  the  name  of 
Major  Andre's  tree.  The  common  people  re 
garded  it  with  a  mixture  of  respect  and  supcrsti' 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.    48D 

lion,  partly  out  of  sympathy  for  the  fate  of  its 
ill-starred  namesake,  and  partly  from  the  tales  of 
strange  bights  and  doleful  lamentations  told  con 
cerning  it. 

As  Ichabod  approached  this  fearful  tree,  he 
began  to  whistle  :  he  thought  his  whistle  was 
Koswcred, —  it  was  but  a  blast  sweeping  sharply 
through  the  dry  branches.  As  he  approached  a 
little  nearer,  he  thought  he  saw  something  white, 
hanging  in  the  midst  of  the  tree,  —  he  paused 
and  ceased  whistling ;  but  on  looking  more  jm.r- 
rowly,  perceived  that  it  was  a  place  where  the 
tree  had  been  scathed  by  lightning,  and  the  white 
wood  laid  bare.  Suddenly  he  heard  a  groai.,— 
his  teeth  chattered  and  his  knees  smote  against 
the  saddle :  it  was  but  the  rubbing  of  one  huga 
bough  upon  another,  as  they  were  swayed  about 
by  the  breeze.  lie  passed  the  tree  in  safety ;  but 
new  perils  lay  before  him. 

About  two  hundred  yards  from  the  tree  a  small 
brook  crossed  the  road,  and  ran  into  a  marshy 
and  thickly  wooded  glen,  known  by  the  name  of 
Wiley's  swamp.  A  few  rough  logs,  laid  side.',  by 
side,  served  for  a  bridge  over  this  stream.  ,  On 
that  side  of  the  road  where  the  brook  entered  the 
wood,  a  group  of  oaks  and  chestnuts,  matted  thick 
with  wild  grape-vines,  threw  a  cavernous  glwrn 
Brer  it.  To  pass  this  bridge  was  the  severest 
trial.  £t  was  at  this  identical  spot  that  the  un 
fortunate  Andre  was  captured,  and  under  the 
tovcrt  of  those  chestnuts  and  vines  were  the 
sturdy  yeomeu  concealed  who  surprised  him. 
This  has  ever  since  been  considered  a  haunted 


490  THE  SKETCH-LOOK. 

utreani,  and  fearful  are  the  feelings  of  the  Dchool 
boy  who  has  to  pass  it  alone  after  dark. 

As  he  approached  the  stream,  his  heart  began 
to  thump ;  he  summoned  up,  however,  all  his 
resolution,  gave  his  horse  half  a  score  of  kicks  in 
the  ribs,  and  attempted  to  dash  briskly  across  the 
bridge ;  but  instead  of  starting  forward,  the  per 
verse  old  animal  made  a  lateral  movement,  and 
ran  broadside  against  the  fence.  Ichabod,  whose 
fears  increased  with  the  delay,  jerked  the  reins 
on  the  other  side,  and  kicked  lustily  with  the  con 
trary  foot :  it  was  all  in  vain ;  his  steed  started, 
it  is  true,  but  it  was  only  to  plunge  to  the  oppo 
site  side  of  the  road  into  a  thicket  of  brambles 
and  alder  bushes.  The  schoolmaster  now  be 
stowed  both  whip  and  heel  upon  the  starveling 
ribs  of  old  Gunpowder,  who  dashed  forward, 
snuffling  and  snorting,  but  came  to  a  stand  just 
by  the  bridge,  with  a  suddenness  that  had  nearly 
sent  his  rider  sprawling  over  his  head.  Just  at 
this  moment  a  plashy  tramp  by  the  side  of  the 
bridge  caught  the  sensitive  ear  of  Ichabod.  In 
the  dark  shadow  of  the  grove,  on  the  margin 
of  the  brook,  he  beheld  something  huge,  mis 
shapen,  black,  and  towering.  It  stirred  not,  but 
seemed  gathered  up  in  the  gloom,  like  some 
gigantic  monster  ready  to  spring  upon  the  travel 
ler. 

The  hair  of  the  affrighted  pedagogue  reso  upon 
his  head  with  terror.  What  was  to  be  done? 
To  turn  and  fly  was  now  too  late  ;  and  besides, 
what  chance  was  there  of  escaping  ghost  or  gob 
lin,  if  such  it  was,  which  could  ride  upon  tha 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.    491 

of  the  wind?  Summoning  up,  therefore, 
Ji  show  of  courage,  he  demanded  in  stammering 
accents  —  "  Who  are  you  ?  "  He  received  no 
reply.  He  repeated  his  demand  in  a  still  more 
agitated  voice.  Still  there  was  no  answer.  Onco 
more  lie  cudgelled  the  sides  of  the  inflexible 
Gunpowder,  and,  shutting  his  eyes,  broke  forth 
with  involuntary  fervor  into  a  psalm-tune.  Just 
then  the  shadowy  object  of  alarm  put  itself  in 
motion,  and,  with  a  scramble  and  a  bound,  stood 
at  once  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  Though  the 
night  was  dark  and  dismal,  yet  the  form  of  the  un 
known  might  now  in  some  degree  be  ascertained. 
He  appeared  to  be  a  horseman  of  large  dimen 
sions,  and  mounted  on  a  black  horse  of  powerful 
frame.  He  made  no  offer  of  molestation  or  socia 
bility,  but  kept  aloof  on  one  side  of  the  road, 
jogging  along  on  the  blind  side  of  old  Gunpow 
der,  who  had  now  got  over  his  fright  and  way 
wardness. 

Ichabod,  who  had  no  relish  for  this  strange 
midnight  companion,  and  bethought  himself  of 
the  adventure  of  Brom  Bones  with  the  Gallop 
ing  Hessian,  now  quickened  his  steed,  in  hopes 
of  leaving  him  behind.  The  stranger,  however, 
quickened  his  horse  to  an  equal  pace.  Ichabod 
pulled  up,  and  fell  into  a  walk,  thinking  to  lag 
behind,  —  the  other  did  the  same.  Ilis  heart 
began  to  sink  within  him ;  he  endeavored  to 
resume  his  psalm-tune,  but  his  parched  tong'io 
clove  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth,  and  he  could  not 
utter  a  stave.  There  was  something  in  the 
moody  and  dogged  silence  of  this  pertinacious 


492  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

companion,  that  was  mysterious  and  appalling 
It  was  soon  fearfully  accounted  for.  On  mount 
ing  a  rising  ground,  which  brought  the  figure  of 
his  fellow-traveller  in  relief  against  the  sky,  gi 
gantic  in  height,  and  inuflled  in  a  cloak,  Ichabod 
was  horror-struck,  on  perceiving  that  he  wag 
headless  !  —  hut  his  horror  was  still  more  in* 
creased,  on  observing  that  the  head,  which  should 
have  rested  on  his  shoulders,  was  carried  before 
him  on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle:  his  terror 
rose  to  desperation ;  he  rained  a  shower  of  kicks 
and  blows  upon  Gunpowder,  hoping,  by  a  sudden 
movement,  to  give  his  companion  the  slip, —  but 
the  spectre  started  full  jump  with  him.  Away 
then  they  dashed,  through  thick  and  thin  ;  stones 
flying,  and  sparks  flashing  at  every  bound. 
Ichabod's  flimsy  garments  fluttered  in  the  air,  as 
he  stretched  his  long  lank  body  away  over  his 
horse's  head,  in  the  eagerness  of  his  flight. 

They  had  now  reached  the  road  which  turns 
off  to  Sleepy  Hollow;  but  Gunpowder,  who 
seemed  possessed  with  a  demon,  instead  of  keep 
ing  up  it,  made  an  opposite  turn,  and  plunged 
headlong  downhill  to  the  left.  This  road  leads 
through  a  sandy  hollow,  shaded  by  trees  for  about 
a  quater  of  a  mile,  where  it  crosses  the  bridge 
famous  in  goblin  story,  and  just  beyond  swells  the 
green  knoll  on  which  stands  the  whitewashed 
church. 

As  yet  the  panic  of  the  steed  had  given  his 
unskilful  rider  an  apparent  advantage  in  the  chase; 
but  just  as  he  had  got  half-way  through  the  hol 
low,  the  girths  of  the  saddle  gave  way,  ar  1  ha 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  493 

felt  it  slipping  from  under  him.  He  seized  it 
by  the  pommel,  and  endeavored  to  hold  it  firm, 
but  in  vain  ;  and  had  just  time  to  save  himself 
by  clasping  old  Gunpowder  round  the  neck,  when 
(he  saddle  fell  to  the  earth,  and  he  heard  it  tram 
pled  underfoot  by  his  pursuer.  For  a  moment 
Hie  terror  of  Hans  Van  Ripper's  wrath  passed 
across  his  mind  —  for  it  was  his  Sunday  saddle  ; 
but  this  was  no  time  for  petty  fears  ;  the  goblin 
was  hard  OTI  his  haunches ;  and  (unskilful  rider 
that  he  was !)  he  had  much  ado  to  maintain  hia 
scat ;  sometimes  slipping  on  one  side,  sometimes 
on  another,  and  sometimes  jolted  on  the  high  ridge 
of  his  horse's  backbone,  with  a  violence  that  ha 
verily  feared  would  cleave  him  asunder. 

An  opening  in  the  trees  now  cheered  liim  with 
the  hopes  that  the  church-bridge  was  at  hand. 
The  wavering  reflection  of  a  silver  star  in  the 
bosom  of  the  brook  told  him  that  he  was  not 
mistaken.  He  saw  the  walls  of  the  church  dimly 
glaring  under  the  trees  beyond.  He  recollected 
the  place  where  Brom  Bones's  ghostly  competitor 
had  disappeared.  "  If  I  can  but  reach  that 
bridge,"  thought  Ichabod,  "I  am  safe."  Just 
then  he  heard  the  black  steed  panting  and  blow 
ing  close  behind  him  ;  he  even  fancied  that  he 
felt  his  hot  breath.  Another  convulsive  kick  iu 
the  ribs,  and  old  Gunpowder  sprang  upon  tho 
bri  .Ige  ;  he  thundered  over  the  resounding  planks  ; 
he  gained  the  opposite  side ;  and  now  Ichabod 
cast  a  look  behind  to  see  if  his  pursuer  should 
Vanish,  according  to  rule,  in  a  flash  of  fire  and 
brimstone.  Just  then  he  saw  the  goblin  rising 


494  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

in  his  stirrups,  and  in  the  very  act  of  bulling  his 
head  at  him.  Ichabod  endeavored  to  dodgo  the 
horrible  missile,  but  too  late.  It  encountered  his 
cranium  with  a  tremendous  crash,  —  he  was  turn 
bled  headlong  into  the  dust,  and  Gunpowder,  (he 
black  steed,  and  the  goblin  rider,  passed  by  like  a 
whirlwind. 

The  next  morning  the  old  horse  was  found 
without  his  saddle,  and  with  the  bridle  under  hia 
feet,  soberly  cropping  the  grass  at  his  master's  gate. 
Ichabod  did  not  make  his  appearance  at  break 
fast  ;  —  dinner-hour  came,  but  no  Ichabod.  The 
ix>ys  assembled  at  the  school-nouse,  and  strolled 
idly  about  the  banks  of  the  brook ;  but  no 
schoolmaster.  Hans  Van  Ripper  now  began  to 
feel  some  uneasiness  about  the  fate  of  poor  Icha 
bod,  and  his  saddle.  An  inquiry  was  set  on  foot, 
and  after  diligent  investigation  they  came  upon 
his  traces.  In  one  part  of  the  road  leading  to 
the  church  was  found  the  saddle  trampled  in  the 
dirt ;  the  tracks  of  horses*  hoofs  deeply  dented  in 
the  road,  and  evidently  at  furious  speed,  were 
traced  to  the  bridge,  beyond  which,  on  the  bank 
of  a  broad  part  of  the  brook,  where  the  water 
ran  deep  and  black,  was  found  the  hat  of  the 
unfortunate  Ichabod,  and  close  beside  it  a  shat 
tered  pumpkin. 

The  brook  was  searched,  but  the  body  of  the 
schoolmaster  was  not  to  be  discovered.  liana 
Van  Ripper,  as  executor  of  his  estate,  examined 
the  bundle  which  contained  all  his  worldly  ctltcts 
They  consisted  of  two  shirts  and  a  half;  two  stock? 
for  the  neck ;  a  pair  or  two  of  worsted  stockings 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW.   495 

an  old  pair  of  corduroy  small-clothes ;  a  rusty 
razor ;  a  book  of  psalm-tunes,  full  of  dogs'  ears , 
and  a  broken  pitehpipe.  As  to  the  books  and 
furniture  of  the  school-house,  they  belonged  to 
the  community,  excepting  Cotton  Mather's  "  His 
tory  of  Witchcraft,"  a  "  New  England  Almanac," 
and  a  book  of  dreams  and  fortune-telling ;  ID 
which  last  was  a  sheet  of  foolscap  much  scrib 
bled  and  blotted  in  several  fruitless  attempts  to 
make  a  copy  of  verses  in  honor  of  the  heiress  of 
Van  Tassel.  These  magic  books  and  the  poetic 
scrawl  were  forthwith  consigned  to  the  ilames  by 
Hans  Van  Ripper;  who  from  that  time  forward  de 
termined  to  send  his  children  no  more  to  school ; 
observing,  that  he  never  knew  any  good  come 
of  this  same  reading  and  writing..  Whatever 
money  the  schoolmaster  possessed,  and  he  had  re 
ceived  his  quarter's  pay  but  a  day  or  two  before, 
he  must  have  had  about  his  person  at  the  time 
of  his  disappearance. 

The  mysterious  event  caused  much  speculation 
at  the  church  on  the  following  Sunday.  Knota 
of  gazers  and  gossips  were  collected  in  the 
churchyard,  at  the  bridge,  and  at  the  spot  where 
the  hat  and  pumpkin  had  been  found.  The 
stories  of  Brouwer,  of  Bones,  and  a  whole  bud 
get  of  others,  were  called  to  mind  ;  and  when 
they  had  diligently  considered  them  all,  and 
compared  them  with  the  symptoms  of  the 
present  case,  they  shook  their  heads,  and  came  to 
tht  conclusion  that  Ichabod  had  been  carried  off 
by  the  Galloping  Hessian.  As  he  was  a  bache 
loi,  and  in  nobody's  debt,  nobody  troubled  his 


496  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

head  imy  more  about  him.  The  school  was  re 
moved  to  a  different  quarter  of  the  Hollow,  and 
another  pedagogue  reigned  in  his  stead. 

It  is  true,  an  old  fanner,  who  had  been  down 
to  New  York  on  a  visit  several  years  after,  and 
from  whom  this  account  of  the  ghostly  adventure 
iv as  received,  brought  home  the  intelligence  that 
Ichabod  Crane  was  still  alive  ;  that  he  had  lell 
the  neighborhood,  partly  through  fear  of  the  gob- 
liii  and  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  partly  in  mortifi 
cation  at  having  been  suddenly  dismissed  by  the 
heiress ;  that  he  had  changed  his  quarters  to  a 
distant  part  of  the  country ;  had  kept  school  and 
studied  law  at  the  same  time,  had  been  admitted 
to  the  bar,  turned  politician,  electioneered,  written 
for  the  newspapers,  and  finally  had  been  made  a 
justice  of  the  Ten  Pound  Court.  Brom  Bones 
too,  who  shortly  after  his  rival's  disappearance 
conducted  the  blooming  Katrina  in  triumph  to 
the  altar,  was  observed  to  look  exceeding  know 
ing  whenever  the  story  of  Ichabod  was  related, 
and  always  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  men 
tion  of  the  pumpkin ;  which  led  some  to  suspect 
that  he  knew  more  about  the  matter  than  ho 
chose  to  tell. 

The  old  country  wives,  however,  who  are  the 
be.it  judges  of  these  matters,  maintain  to  this  day 
that  Ichabod  was  spirited  away  by  supernatural 
means  ;  and  it  is  a  favorite  story  often  told  about 
Ihe  neighborhood  round  the  winter  evening  lire. 
The  bridge  became  more  than  ever  an  object  of 
superstitious  awe,  and  that  maytc  the  reason  why 
the  road  has  been  altered  of  late  years,  so  as  to 


POSTSCRIPT.  497 

approach  the  church  by  the  border  of  the  mill- 
pond.  The  school-house,  being  deserted,  soon 
fell  to  decay,  and  was  reported  to  be  haunted  by 
the  ghost  of  the  unfortunate  pedagogue ;  and 
the  ploughboy,  loitering  homeward  of  a  still 
summer  evening,  has  often  fancied  his  voice  at 
a  distance,  chanting  a  melancholy  psalm-tune 
among  the  tranquil  solitudes  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 


POSTSCRIPT, 

FOUND  IN  THE  HANDWRITING  OP  MR.  KNICKERBOCKER. 

THE  preceding  Tale  is  given,  almost  in  the  precise  words 
in  which  I  heard  it  related  at  a  Corporation  meeting  of  the 
ancient  city  of  Manhattoes,  at  which  were  present  many 
of  its  sagest  and  most  illustrious  burghers.  The  narrator 
was  a  pleasant,  shabby,  gentlemanly  old  fellow,  in  pepper- 
and-salt  clothes,  with  a  sadly  humorous  face ;  and  one 
whom  I  strongly  suspected  of  being  poor, — ho  made  such 
efforts  to  bo  entertaining.  When  his  story  was  concluded, 
there  was  much  laughter  and  approbation,  particularly 
from  two  or  three  deputy  aldermen,  who  had  been  asleep 
the  greater  part  of  the  time.  There  was,  however,  one 
tall,  dry-looking  old  gentleman,  with  beetling  eyebrows, 
who  maintained  a  grave  and  rather  severe  face  throughout; 
now  and  then  folding  his  arms,  inclining  his  head,  and  look 
ing  down  upon  the  floor,  as  if  turning  a  doubt  over  in  his 
mind.  He  was  one  of  your  wary  men,  who  never  laugh, 
but  on  good  grounds — when  they  have  reason  and  tho 
law  on  their  side.  When  tho  mirth  of  tho  rest  of  tho  com 
pany  had  subsided  and  silence  was  restored,  he  leaned  one 
arm  on  the  elbow  of  his  chair,  and  sticking  the  other  akimbo, 
demanded,  with  a  slight  but  exceedingly  sage  motion  of  the 
head,  and  contraction  of  the  brow,  what  was  the  moral  of 
the  story,  and  what  it  went  to  prove  ? 

The  story-teller,  who  was  just  putting  a  glass  of  wine 
to  his  lips,  as  a  refreshment  after  his  toils,  paused  for  a 
moment,  looked  at  his  inquirer  with  an  air  of  infinite  def 
erence,  and,  lowering  the  glass  slowly  to  the  table,  ob 
served,  that  the  story  was  intended  most  logically  to 
prove: — 

32 


4<J8  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

"  That  there  is  no  situation  in  life  but  has  its  advantage* 
and  pleasures  —  provided  we  will  but  take  a  joke  as  we 
find  it  : 

"  That,  therefore,  he  that  runs  races  with  goblin  troopers 
is  likely  to  have  rough  riding  of  it. 

"  Ergo,  for  a  country  schoolmaster  to  be  refused  the  hand 
of  a  Dutch  heiress,  is  a  certain  step  to  high  preferment  in 
the  state." 

The  cautious  old  gentleman  knit  his  brows  tenfold  close! 
after  this  explanation,  being  sorely  puzzled  by  the  ratioci 
nation  of  the  syllogism;  while,  methought,  the  ono  in  p ep- 
per-and-salt  eyed  him  with  something  of  a  triumphant 
leer.  At  length  he  observed,  that  all  tbia  was  very  well, 
but  still  he  thought  the  story  a  little  on  the  extravagant 
—  there  were  one  or  two  points  on  which  he  had  his  doubts. 

**  Faith,  sir,"  replied  the  story-teller,  "  as  to  that  mattei, 
I  lion't  believe  one  half  of  it  mvaelf." 

D.K. 


I/ENVOY* 


Go.  little  booke,  God  send  thee  good  passage, 
And  specially  let  this  be  thy  prayere, 
Unto  tbem  all  that  thee  will  read  or  hear, 
Where  thou  art  wrong,  after  their  help  to  call, 
Thee  to  correct  in  any  part  or  all. 

CIIAUCEK'S  JSdle  Dame  sant  Mercie. 

|N  concluding  a  second  volume  of  the 
Sketch-Book,  the  Author  cannot  but  ex 
press  his  deep  sense  of  the  indulgence 
with  which  his  first  has  been  received,  and  of  the 
liberal  disposition  that  has  been  evinced  to  treat 
him  with  kindness  as  a  stranger.  Even  the  crit 
ics,  whatever  may  be  said  of  them  by  others,  he 
has  found  to  be  a  singularly  gentle  and  good-na 
tured  race ;  it  is  true  that  each  has  in  turn  ob 
jected  to  some  one  or  two  articles,  and  that  these 
individual  exceptions,  taken  in  the  aggregate, 
would  amount  almost  to  a  total  condemnation  of 
his  work ;  but  then  he  has  been  consoled  by  ob 
serving,  that  what  one  has  particularly  censured, 
another  has  as  particularly  praised  ;  and  thus,  the 
encomiums  being  set  off  against  the  objections,  he 
fiiida  his  work,  upon  the  whole,  commended  fur 
beyond  its  deserts. 

He  is  aware  that  he  runs  a  risk  of  forfeiting 

*  Closing  the  second  rolume  of  the  London  edition. 

499 


600  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

much  of  this  kind  favor  by  not  following  the 
counsel  that  has  been  liberally  bestowed  upon 
him ;  for  where  abundance  of  valuable  advice  ia 
given  gratis,  it  may  seem  a  man's  own  fault  if  ho 
should  go  astray.  He  can  only  say,  in  his  vindi 
cation,  that  he  faithfully  determined,  for  a  time, 
to  govern  himself  in  his  second  volume  by  the 
opinions  passed  upon  his  first ;  but  he  was  soon 
brought  to  a  stand  by  the  contrariety  of  excellent 
counsel.  One  kindly  advised  him  to  avoid  the 
ludicrous  ;  another  to  slum  the  pathetic  ;  a  third 
assured  him  that  he  was  tolerable  at  description, 
but  cautioned  him  to  leave  narrative  alone  ;  whilo 
a  fourth  declared  that  he  had  a  very  pretty  knack 
at  turning  a  story,  and  was  really  entertaining 
when  in  a  pensive  mood,  but  was  grievously  mis 
taken  if  he  imagined  himself  to  possess  a  spirit 
of  humor. 

Thus  perplexed  by  the  advice  of  his  friends, 
who  each  in  turn  closed  some  particular  path,  but 
left  him  all  the  world  beside  to  range  in,  he  found 
that  to  follow  all  their  counsels  would,  in  fact,  bo 
to  stand  still.  He  remained  for  a  time  sadly 
embarrassed;  when,  all  at  once,  the  thought 
struck  him  to  ramble  on  as  he  had  begun ;  that 
his  work  being  miscellaneous,  and  written  for 
different  humors,  it  could  not  be  expected  that 
nny  one  would  be  pleased  with  the  whole ;  but 
that  if  it  should  contain  something  to  suit  each 
reader,  his  end  would  be  completely  answered 
Few  guests  sit  down  to  a  varied  table  with  an 
equal  appetite  for  every  dish.  One  has  an  elegant 
horror  of  a  roasted  pig  ;  another  holds  a  curry  or 


L' ENVOY.  501 

a  devil  in  utter  abomination  ;  a  third  cannot  toler- 
Rte  (he  ancient  flavor  of  venison  and  wild-fowl; 
and  a  fourth,  of  truly  masculine  stomach,  looks 
with  sovereign  contempt  on  those  knickknacks, 
here  and  there  dished  up  for  the  ladies.  Thus  B 
each  article  is  condemned  in  its  turn ;  and  yet, 
amidst  this  variety  of  appetites,  seldom  docs  a  dish 
go  away  from  the  table  without  being  tasted  and 
relished  by  some  one  or  other  of  the  guests. 

With  these  considerations  he  ventures  to  servo 
up  this  second  volume  in  the  same  heterogeneous 
way  with  his  first ;  simply  requesting  the  reader 
if  he  should  find  here  and  there  something  to 
please  him,  to  rest  assured  that  it  was  written 
expressly  for  intelligent  readers  like  himself;  but 
entreating  him,  should  he  find  anything  to  dislike, 
to  tolerate  it,  as  one  of  those  articles  which  the 
author  has  been  obliged  to  write  for  readers  of  a 
less  refined  taste. 

To  be  serious.  —  The  author  is  conscious  of 
the    numerous    faults   and    imperfections   of  his 
work ;  and  well  aware  how  little  he  is  disciplined 
and  accomplished  in  the  arts  of  authorship.     His 
deficiencies   are   also    increased   by  a   diffidence 
arising  from  his  peculiar  situation.    lie  finds  him- 1 
Belf  writing  in  a  strange  land,  and  appearing  be 
fore  a  public  which  he  has  been  accustomed,  from      , 
childhood,  to  regard  with  the  highest  feelings  of   y 
awe  and  reverence.     He  is  full  of  solicitude  to 
deserve  their  approbation,  yet  finds  that  very  so 
licitude  continually  embarrassing  his  powers,  and 
depriving  him  of  that  ease  and  confidence  which 
are  necessary  to  successful   exertion.     Still  the 


602 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


kindness  with  which  lie  is  treated  encourages  him 
to  go  on,  hoping  that  in  time  he  may  acquire  a 
steadier  footing;  and  thus  he  proceeds,  half  ven 
turing,  half  shrinking,  surprised  at  his  cwn  g 
fortune,  and  wondering  at  his  cwn  temerity. 


APPENDIX. 


KOTES  CONCERNING  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

TOWARD  the  end  of  the  sixth  century,  when  Britain, 
under  the  dominion  of  the  Saxons,  was  in  a  state  of  bar 
barism  and  idolatry,  Pope  Gregory  the  Great,  struck  with 
the  beauty  of  some  Anglo-Saxon'youths  exposed  for  sale 
in  the  nfarket-place  at  Rome,  conceived  a  fancy  for  the 
race,  and  determined  to  send  missionaries  to  preach  the 
gospel  among  these  comely  but  benighted  islanders.  He 
was  encouraged  to  this  by  learning  that  Kthelbert,  king  of 
Kent,  and  the  most  potent  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  princes, 
had  married  Bertha,  a  Christian  princess,  only  daughter  of 
the  king  of  Paris,  and  that  she  was  allowed  *by  stipulation 
the  full  exercise  of  her  religion. 

The  shrewd  Pontiff  knew  the  influence  of  the  sex  in 
matters  of  religious  faith.  He  forthwith  despatched  Au 
gustine,  a  Roman  monk,  with  forty  associates,  to  the  court 
of  Kthelbert  at  Canterbury,  to  effect  the  conversion  of  tho 
king  and  to  obtain  through  him  a  foothold  in  the  island. 

Kthelbert  received  them  warily,  and  held  a  conference 
in  the  open  air;  being  distrustful  of  foreign  priestcraft, 
and  fearful  of  spells  and  magic.  They  ultimately  succeeded 
in  making  him  as  good  a  Christian  as  his  wife; "the  conver 
sion  of  the  king  of  course  produced  the  conversion  of  hia 
loyal  subjects.  The  zeal  and  success  of  Augustine  were  re 
warded  by  his  being  made  archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and 
being  endowed  with  authority  over  all  the  British  churches. 

One  of  the  most  prominent  converts  was  Segebert  of 
Sebert,  king  of  the  East  Saxons,  a  nephew  of  EthelberL 
He  reigned  at  London,  of  which  Mellitus,  one  of  the  Ro 
man  monks  who  had  come  over  with  Augustine,  was  made 
bishop. 

Sebert,  in  605,  in  his  religious  zeal,  founded  a  monastery 
by  the  river-side  to  the  west  of  the  city,  on  the  ruins  of  a 
temple  of  Apollo,  being,  in  fact,  the  origin  of  the  present 
pile  of  Westminster  Abbey.  Great  preparations  were  mad« 
for  the  consecration  of  the  church,  which  was  to  be  dedi 
cated  to  St.  Peter.  On  the  morning  of  tb°  appointed  day 

503 


504  THE  SKETCH-BOOR. 

Mellitus,  the  bishop,  proceeded  with  great  pomp  and  solera 
nity  to  perform  the  ceremony*  On  approaching  the  edificfl 
he  was  met  by  a  fisherman,  who  informed  him  that  it  was 
needless  to  proceed,  as  the  ceremony  was  over.  The  bishop 
stared  with  sufpri.se,  when  the  fisherman  went  on  to  relate, 
that  the  night  before,  as  he  was  in  his  boat  on  the  Thames, 
St.  Peter  appeared  to  him,  and  told  him  that  he  intended  to 
consecrate  the  church  himself,  that  very  night.  The  apostle 
Accordingly  went  into  the  church,  which  suddenly  became 
illuminated.  The  ceremony  was  performed  in  sumptucag 
.style,  accompanied  by  strains  of  heavenly  music  and  clouds 
of  fragrant  incense.  After  this,  the  apo'stle  came  into  the 
boat  and  ordered  the  fisherman  to  cast  his  net.  He  did  so, 
and  had  a  miraculous  draught  of  fishes;  one  of  which  ha 
was  commanded  to  present  to  the  bishop,  and  to  signify  to 
him  that  the  apostle  had  relieved  him  from  the  necessity  of 
consecrating  the  church. 

Mellitus  was  a  wary  man,  slow  of  belief,  and  required 
confirmation  of  the  fisherman's  tale.  He  opened  the  church- 
doors,  and  beheld  wax  candles,  crosses,  holy  water;  oil 
sprinkled  in  various  places,  and  various  other  traces  of 
a  grand  ceremonial.  If  he  had  still  any  lingering  doubts, 
they  were  completely  removed  on  the  fisherman's  produc 
ing  the  identical  fish  which  he  had  been  ordered  by  the 
apostle  to  present  to  him.  To  resist  this  would  have  been 
to  resist  ocular  demonstration.  The  good  bishop  accord 
ingly  was  convinced  that  the  church  had  actually  bees 
consecrated  by  St.  Peter  in  person;  so  he  reverently  abstained 
from  proceeding  further  in  the  business. 

The  foregoing  tradition  is  said  to  be  the  reason  why 
King  Edward  the  Confessor  chose  this  place  as  the  site  of  a 
religious  house  which  he  meant  to  endow.  He  pulled  down 
the  old  church  and  built  another  in  its  place  in  1045.  In 
this  his  remains  were  deposited  in  a  magnificent  shrine. 

The  sacred  edifice  again  underwent  modifications,  if  not  a 
reconstruction,  by  Henry  III.,  in  1220,  and  began  to  assuma 
its  present  appearance. 

Under  Henry  VIII.  it  lost  its  conventual  character,  thai 
monarch  turning  the  monks  away,  and  seizing  upon  the 
revenues. 


RELICS  OF  EDWARD  THE  CONFESSOR. 

A  curious  narrative  was  printed  in  1688,  by  one  of  the 
choristers  of  the  cathedral,  who  appears  to  have  been  the 
Paul  Pry  of  the  sacred  edifice,  giving  an  account  of  his 
rummaging  among  the  bones  of  Edward  the  Confessor. 
After  they  had  quietly  reposed  in  their  sepulchre  upward! 
%f  six  hundred  years,  and  of  his  drawing  forth  the  crucitif 


APPESPIX.  505 

and  golden  chain  ol  the  deceased  monarch.  Dur.ng  eigh 
teen  years  that  he  had  officiated  in  the  choir,  i(  had  been  a 
common  tradition,  ho.  says,  among  his  brother  choristers  and 
the  gray-headed  servants  of  the  abbey,  that  the  body  of 
King  Edward  was  deposited  in  a  kind  of  chest  or  coffin, 
which  was  indistinctly  seen  in  the  upper  part  of  the  shrine 
erected  to  his  memory.  None  of  the  abbey  gossips,  how- 
over,  had  ventured  upon  a  nearer  inspection,  until  tin 
worthy  narrator,  to  gratify  his  curiosity  mounted  to  thi 
cotiin  by  the  aid  of  a  ladder,  and  found'  it  to  he  made  of 
wood,  apparently  very  strong  and  linn,  being  secured  by 
bands  of  iron. 

Subsequently,  in  1GS5,  on  taking  down  the  scaffolding 
used  in  the  coronation  of  James  II.,  the  collin  was  found 
to  he  broken,  a  hole  appearing  in  the  lid,  probably  made, 
through  accident,  by  the  workmen.  No  one  ventured, 
however,  to  meddle  with  the  sacred  depository  of  royal 
dust,  until,  several  weeks  afterwards,  the  circums'tance  ca'ino 
to  the  knowledge  of  the  aforesaid  chorister,  lie  tbrthwitl 
repaired  to  the  abbey  in  company  with  two  friends,  of  con 
genial  tastes,  who  were  desirous"  of  inspecting  the  tombs 
Procuring  a  ladder,  he  again  mounted  to  the  cottin,  and  found 
as  had  been  represented,  a  hole  in  the  lid  about  six  inchef 
long  and  four  inches  broad,  just  in  front  of  the  left  breast. 
Thrusting  in  his  hand,  and  groping  among  the  bones,  he 
drew  from  underneath  the  shoulder  a  crucifix,  richly  adorned 
and  enamelled,  aflixed  to  a  gold  chain  twenty-four  inches 
long.  These  he  showed  to  his  inquisitive  friends,  who  were 
equally  surprised  with  himself. 

"  At  the  time,"  says  he,  "  when  I  took  the  cross  and  chain 
out  of  the  coflin,  1  drew  the  he<td  to  the  hule  and  cicicrd  it, 
being  very  sound  and  firm,  with  the  upper  and  nether  jawa 
whole  and  full  of  teeth,  and  a  list  of  gold  above  an  inch 
broad,  in  the  nature  of  a  coronet,  surrounding  the  temples. 
There  was  also  in  the  coflin,  white  linen  and  gold-colored 
flowered  silk,  that  looked  indifferent  fresh;  but  the  least 
stress  put  thereto  showed  it  was  wellnigh  perished.  There 
were  all  his  bones,  and  much  dust  likewisa,  which  I  left  as  I 
found." 

It  in  difficult  to  conceive  a  more  grotesque  lesson  to  hu 
man  pride  than  the  skull  of  Edward  the  Confessor  thai 
irreverently  pulled  about  in  its  coflin  by  a  prying  chorister, 
xnd  brought  to  grin  face  to  lace  with  him  through  a  hole  in 
the  lidj 

Having  satisfied  his  curiosity,  the  chorister  put  the  cru- 
tifix  and  chain  back  again  into  the  ofiin,  and  sought  th« 
lean,  to  apprise  him  of  his  discover}'.  The  dean  not  being 
accessible  at  the  time,  and  fearing  that  the  "  holy  treasure" 
night  be  taken  away  by  other  hands,  he  got  a  brothoi 
horidter  to  accompany  him  to  the  shrine  about  two  or  thivd 


506  TRE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

hours  afterwards,  and  in  his  presence  again  drew  forth  '.he 
relics.  These  lie  afterwards  delivered  on  his  knees  to  Ring 
James.  The  king  subsequently  had  the  old  coftin  inclosed 
in  a  new  one  of  great  strength:  "each  plank  being  two 
inches  thick  and  cramped  together  with  large  iron  wedges, 
where  it  now  remains  (1688)  as  a  testimony  of  his  pious  care-, 
that  no  abuse  might  be  offered  to  the  sa'cred  ashes  therein 
deposited." 

As  the  history  of  this  shrine  is  full  of  moral,  I  subjoin  a 
description  of  it  in  modern  times.  "  The  solitary  and  for- 
Eorn  shrine,"  says  a  British  writer,  "now  stands  a  mere 
skeleton  of  what"  it  was.  A  few  faint  traces  of  its  sparkling 
decorations  inlaid  on  solid  mortar  catches  the  rays  of  the 

sun,  forever  set  on  its  splendor Only  two  of  the 

spiral  pillars  remain.  The  wooden  Ionic  top  is  much  broken, 
and  covered  with  dust.  The  mosaic  is  picked  away  in 
every  part  within  reach,  only  the  lozenges  of  about  a  foot 
square  and  five  circular  pieces  of  the  rich  marble  remain." — 
Alalcorn,  Lond.  rediv. 


INSCRIPTION  ON  A  MONUMENT  ALLUDED  TO 
IX  THE  SKETCH. 

Here  lyes  the  Loyal  Duke  of  Newcastle,  and  his  Duchesa 
his  second  wife,  by  whom  he  had  no  issue.  Her  name  was 
Margaret  Lucas,  youngest  sister  to  the  Lord  Lucas  of  Col 
chester,  a  noble  family;  for  all  the  brothers  were  valiant, 
and  all  the  sisters  virtuous.  This  Duchess  was  a  wise,  witty, 
and  learned  lady,  which  her  many  Bookes  do  well  testify  : 
she  was  a  most' virtuous,  and  loving  and  careful  wife,  and 
was  with  her  lord  all  the  time  of  his  banishment  and 
miseries,  and  when  he  came  home,  never  parted  from  him  in 
his  solitary  retirements. 


In  the  winter  time,  when  the  days  are  short,  the  service 
in  the  afternoon  is  performed  by  the  light  of  tapers.  The 
effect  is  line  of  the  choir  partially  lighted  up,  while  the 
cnain  body  of  the  cathedral  and  the  transepts  are  in  pro 
found  and  cavernous  darkness.  The  white  dresses  of  the 
choristers  gleam  amidst  the  deep  brown  of  the  open  slats 
and  cancpies;  the  partial  illumination  makes  enormous 
shadows  from  columns  and  screens,  and  darting  into  the 
lurrounding  gloom,  catches  here  and  there  upon  a  sepul- 
thral  decoration,  or  monumental  efiigy.  The  swelling  notea 
>f  the  organ  accord  well  with  the  scene. 

When  the  service  is  over,  the  dean  is  lighted  to  nis 
iwelling,  in  the  old  conventual  part  of  the  pile,  by  th« 


APPENDIX.  50? 

hoys  of  tl«e  choir,  in  their  white  dresses,  bearing  tapers,  and 
the  procession  passes  through  the  abbey  and  along  the  shad 
owy  cloisters,  lighting  up  angles  and  arrlies  and  grim  sepul 
chral  monuments,  and  leaving  all  behind  in  darkness. 

On  entering  the  cloisters  at  night  from  what  is  called  tha 
Dean's  Yarl,  the  eye  ranging  through  a  dark  vaulted  passage 
caches  a  distant  view  of  a  white  marble  figure  reclining  on 
«  tamb,  on  which  a  strong  glare  thrown  by  a  gas-light  has 
•i  vie  a  spectr jd  effect.  It  is  a  mural  monument  of  ono  of  th$ 
Fultneye. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY— TEL.  NO.  642-3405 
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